i 



library of congress 



00020352814 ^ 














































The 

Jealous Mrs. Simkins 


BY 

EVERARD ROBERTS 


Ube ftnicfterbocfeer press 
Tlew 2?orfe 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Gooies Received 

may 3 1906 

w-. Copyright Entr, 
CLASS' CcXXc. No 

Jd+JTS'&J 

COPY 8. 



Copyright 1906, by 
EVERARD ROBERTS 




















CHAPTER I 


Love not alone on beauty looks, but where he loves, 
And deems her beautiful beyond compare 
Who in all others’ eyes is homely called. 

“The Disconsolate Monarch.” 

I N the early part of the eighteenth century there 
stood near the hamlet of Haddonhill, in the 
County of Warwick, a large rambling old house 
built of stone. Chateau-like in part, it had been added 
to by several succeeding owners, all of whom, while 
following out their own ideas, had yet preserved the 
architectural features of the original. 

The founder of the old chateau — a Marquis de 
Courcey, to escape the persecutions of which he had 
become a victim, had fled his native France, and 
settled here for good and the better enjoyment of that 
serenity which his own country denied him. 

The date of erection of the original structure was 
unknown ; even tradition, that usually prolific but un- 
satisfactory source of information, remained silent on 
the subject. 

That ancient protector, the moat, which had been 
many years dry and was now overgrown with rank 
herbage, encircled it. The drawbridge, too, which, 
swung its weather-beaten and decaying timbers across, 
no longer squeaked its opposition to the porter’s will. 

A vigorous growth of ivy covered its walls on two 
sides, and in some instances partly concealed the win- 
dows from view, while oaks of great girth of trunk 


2 


GFbe Jealous JHrs. £>tmtunfl 


and spread of limb, which were reputed to be several 
centuries old, stood guardian-like on either side. 
Standing upon an eminence at some distance from 
the highway, it became at once a conspicuous feature 
in the landscape of that section of country, and em- 
braced from its turrets a view of many miles round. 

The house itself was in a tolerably good state of 
preservation, but the grounds, and the wall surround- 
ing the grounds, from want of attention had gone 
to decay. Even the more recently constructed por- 
ter’s lodge adjoining the main gateway had not out- 
lasted its more ancient neighbor, and but for its loca- 
tion gave little evidence of what it had once been. 

The family had long been extinct, but the family 
escutcheon, as if defying the all-destroying hand of 
Time, still stood out sharp and clear in stone above 
the main portal. 

Connected with the place were many dismal stories 
which passed current among credulous believers ; great 
indeed was the fear in which the country folk stood 
of it. 

It was asserted, and readily believed among them, 
that the form of a woman in ghostly attire had been 
plainly seen gliding beneath the shade of the oaks 
mentioned. 

Others had observed the self same figure standing 
in the turret at the dead hour of night, straining as if 
to catch a sight of one for whom she looked. 

Be this as it may, the chateau and grounds, for 
many years untenanted, had passed by purchase into 


<E|)e 3fcalott0 JUrc. g>tmluns 


3 


possession of Mrs. Septimus Simkins — who was not 
of a nature to be frightened with tales of that kind — 
and she and her husband now occupied it. 

An extremely jealous woman was Mrs. Simkins, 
and the purchasing of this property was its outcome, 
for she hoped her husband would find here such re- 
creation as would forever remove from his mind all 
thought of London, its gaiety and its frivolity, of 
which, she imagined, he had become inordinately 
fond. 

But never was woman more mistaken. Simkins, 
poor man, worried as he was by the incessant accusa- 
tions of his better half, cared as little for the pleasures 
of London life, as perhaps, did any man who dwelt 
there. 

But two years married, there had existed during 
that time what may appropriately be called, a cat and 
dog feeling between them. On his part it existed se- 
cretly and without demonstration; true, every now 
and then, being provoked past endurance, he would 
exhibit some little ebullition of spirit, only to sub- 
side again a few moments later into quiet submissive- 
ness. 

Did Mr. Simkins walk, Mrs. Simkins would needs 
walk too, and when he would beg a little privacy in 
which to arrange matters relating to his own private 
affairs, she would avow it to be but an excuse for the 
furtherance of schemes in opposition to his marriage 
vows. Indeed, her jealousy had lately grown to such 
proportions that Simkins, meek and humble in dis- 


4 


€&e jealous re. &tmkin$ 


position though he was — having heretofore yielded 
in all things to the wishes, not to say whims, of his 
wife — had again resolved to consider the question 
of her cure, or failing which, to seek a separation. 
This time seriously, and with a determination to push 
the matter to a definite conclusion. 

Mrs. Simpkins was on the shady side of fifty. Tall 
and angular, she stood head and shoulders iabovte 
her husband; indeed, in no particular was there any 
similarity between them. Wrinkled she was beyond 
her years, with deep-set eyes, which moved restlessly 
as she gazed through, and often over, a pair of golden 
spectacles which rested on the bridge of her parrot- 
beaked nose. A square and heavy chin punctuated a 
face as remarkable for its strength as for its lack of 
those qualities; the attributes of feminine comeliness. 

Not to particularize, her general appearance and de- 
meanor indicated the possession of an unbounded 
self-esteem and assurance, and a will which was sub- 
servient to but one person in the world, and that per- 
son herself. 

Indeed, it was long a matter of discussion among 
Simkins’s friends and acquaintances what he could 
possibly have seen in Mrs. Simkins to induce him to 
marry her. 

Some hinted vaguely of an impaired mental con- 
dition, some spoke of the transforming power of 
money, through which she had appeared to his eyes 
an object beautiful: others thought it a clear case of 
bartering self for pelf, an exchange into which he had 


2T{)e jealous §>tmtun$ 


5 


entered with both eyes wide open; while some, more 
superstitious, insisted she must have given him love 
powders, an opinion with which Simkins himself 
finally and firmly coincided. 

Whatever may have been the inducement, certain 
it is Simkins's eyes were now fully open — as they had 
long been — to the fact that he was married, married, 
so to speak, to his bread and butter — to a woman in 
whom his every movement was a source of suspicion, 
and to prevent which he had often been compelled to 
tiptoe it in and about the premises. 

Yet despite the many worriments which his wife's 
excessive jealousy occasioned him, he remained very 
fleshy, smooth-faced, rosy-cheeked and had reached 
the age of five and thirty. 

Of his parentage nothing was known; born he 
certainly had been, but whether of a duke or a ditch- 
digger, he possessed not the remotest knowledge. He 
was found, when an infant, nicely tucked in a basket 
at the door of a poor, but honest cobbler, whose wife, 
kind soul, had carefully cared for and brought him up. 

The portrait of a gentleman and a paper carefully 
sealed were discovered with him in the basket, but 
his foster-parents, poor illiterate souls, could glean 
nothing from them, and after poring over the writing 
many times, finally mislaid it and dismissed the mat- 
ter from their minds. 

The portrait, too, had gone the way of the paper, 
and with them the only hope of establishing his iden- 
tity, but Simkins was of so sanguine a disposition that 


6 


Cl jc 3T^Iotifi Jltre. 


he still harbored the belief that fortune would one 
day reveal his blue blood, and much pleasure it gave 
him accordingly. 

Deprived of most educational advantages his youth 
had been spent in the shop and under the austere eye 
of his foster-father, who spoke but seldom, and then 
only to be obeyed. An apt scholar in the branch at 
which he studied he soon became a valuable acqui- 
sition, and helped to place many a shilling in the 
purse of the old shoemaker. 

Despite his best efforts, however, our little found- 
ling was ever a good-for-nothing and lazy fellow in 
the eyes of the old gentleman, who availed himself 
of every opportunity to tell him so. 

Thus wounded in feeling, he more than once re- 
solved to run away, and would have put his resolution 
into practice but for the kindness of his foster- 
mother, whom He loved and could not make up his 
mind to leave. Could he forget the many unmerited 
strappings he had received, the many times sent sup- 
perless to bed? No, nor could he forget the kindness 
of heart which, unknown to her testy husband, had 
prompted the old lady — his wife — to steal upstairs 
and kissing, present him his much needed supper. 

But stern foster-father and kind foster-mother had 
long since passed away and leaving no issue the pres- 
ent Simkins alone lived to perpetuate the name. 

Almost his sole inheritance, the outfit of the old 
shoe-shop, he still preserved in the garret of his 
present home with the greatest care. 


CHAPTER II 


Be not in marriage hasty, 

Let thy first impressions wear with time. — 

Study thou the disposition well of him thou lov’st, 
That no discordant element exist 
To mar thy future being. 


‘The Disconsolate Monarch.” 


FTER the death of the old couple, and the 



consequent closing of the old shoe-shop, the 


world of London lay all before him. As 


he walked its busy streets his heart throbbed with 
expectation of his future greatness. He contemplated 
his vast prospective wealth and the disposition he 
should make of it. 

What would he not do ? He would found hospitals, 
build churches whose spires should kiss the clouds and 
bring him fame and immortality. 

But Simkins, like many a poor lad before him, 
soon learned that fortune is not easy of achievement; 
that the aspirations, the hopes of ardent youth are 
too often born to die with the experience of a riper 
age. 

Of money he had just five pounds sterling, the 
thrifty savings of his benefactors, a sum sufficient 
only for the supplying of his immediate wants. True, 
he might have realized a trifle on the sale of the effects 
of the old shop, and other belongings, had He so 
wished, but the thought, if it occurred to him, was so 


B 


Jealotta fflitn. gumtunfi 


base a one, that he at once dismissed it from his 
mind. 

Purchasing a suit of clothes, he started out in 
search of employment. Securing at last a situation 
as a lad of all work in a green grocery, he soon in- 
curred the wrath of his master by an error in arith- 
metic, and was by him unceremoniously discharged. 
Alas! that so brief an experience can work so great 
a change in man’s aspirations. The sky which be- 
fore appeared so bright and clear had grown sud- 
denly dim. He saw in the streets many poor fellows, 
wretched and hungry looking, whom he had not 
noticed before, and he wondered if they, too, once 
had had golden dreams. Situation after situation was 
procured, and lost almost as soon as obtained. A 
mania for reading had taken possession of him, and 
the time which should have been devoted to the in- 
terests of his employers was thus consumed. 

Much of his money, too, was spent on books, many 
of which he still retained in the library of his present 
home. 

It was long the scoff of his wife that next to his 
“insignificant self” books were the only portion he 
had brought her. Nature, evidently, had not fitted 
him for business pursuits; his was not a disposition 
to make money, neither could he retain money after 
it was made; what wonder, therefore, that we now 
find him in that most embarrassing of positions, a de- 
pendent on the means -of another, and that, of all per- 
sons, his wife; indeed she never hesitated to tell him 


Cljc 3fealotts ;f$tr 0 . J&imktna 


9 


that but for her his road to the poor-house would be 
a short and straight one. 

Standing one day in a dingy street before the stall 
of an old bookseller — his frequent resort — he was ac- 
costed by an old gentleman, who often observing his 
fondness for books, began to feel quite an inter- 
est in him. This gentleman, Smithers by name, had 
many years retired from business. Keeping bachelor’s 
hall he lived in a lavish style in one of the most aris- 
tocratic quarters of the city. With him Simkins en- 
gaged and found for the first time employment con- 
genial to his tastes. 

Possessed of a large library, Simkins was given 
unrestricted privileges therein, which he failed not to 
take the utmost advantage of. It was during his stay 
here that he made the acquaintance of Thomas Tib- 
bins, who became his best and most particular friend 
during life, and of whom we shall have occasion to 
speak hereafter. 

Having been accorded the treatment due to a loving 
son it was but natural he should expect some sub- 
stantial proof of Mr. Smithers’s affection when that 
old gentleman should die. 

This unfortunate event took place ten years after 
Simkins’s advent there, and was caused by falling 
downstairs while on the way to his chamber after a 
convivial meeting with his bachelor friends. 

Mr. Smithers’s will contained no clause specially 
interesting to Simkins, who now found himself, ex- 


10 


(ZTJe 3Mottfis Jftrs, Stmluna 


cept for books, of which he had purchased a large 
number, almost as poor as ever. 

The friendship of Tibbins now stood him in good 
need. From him he received board and lodging, pe- 
cuniary assistance and counsel. It was during his 
stay here that he first saw, and was smitten by the 
lady who afterward became his wife. 

Sitting one day alone in the park adjacent to Tib- 
bins’s apartments, Miss Tubbs, Simkins avows, espied 
him, made advances toward him, and carried him off 
a prize in spite of himself and the oft-repeated pro- 
tests of his bosom friend, Mr. Tibbins. 

A courtship which continued nightly for a period 
of four weeks ended in their marriage, and after a 
brief stay in London they removed to the old chateau 
at Haddonhill, hereinbefore mentioned. Tibbins fol- 
lowed them soon after and settled in the same section 
of the country some sixteen miles distant. 

As stated in the preceding chapter, Simkins had 
again firmly resolved to cure his wife of her excess- 
ive jealousy, and we now find him in his library 
alone, sitting before a large open fireplace pondering 
the means whereby the cure is to be effected. 

To solve this much vexed question he had the day 
before despatched a message to his friend Tibbins, 
soliciting a visit from him. As yet he had not come, 
nor, indeed, had he any intension of coming; h ! is 
hatred of woman, and of Mrs. Simkins in particular, 
would ever act as a bar to any such proceeding. 

The clock had just struck eleven. Rising with a 


JAra. IHmfttntf 


11 


countenance which evidenced dissatisfaction he went 
to the window, out of which he vainly endeavored to 
look. All was total darkness. The cold October 
winds howled dismally as they forced their way 
through the limbs of the mammoth oaks before him. 
A storm long brewing, had now commenced in all 
its fury of wind and rain. 

A feeling of deep despondency settled upon him 
as he again seated himself before the fire and caused 
him to ponder ills which more than to all others on 
this earth he believed had been allotted to him. From 
pondering he fell into a half doze, out of which he 
was suddenly startled, and observed his wife looking 
into the room at him from behind the door, which 
she held partly open. 

Believing he had not seen her, she pulled the door 
gently to and closed it. 

Simkins imperceptibly approached the door, and 
opening it suddenly, Mrs. Simkins fell her length 
upon the floor. 

He assisted her to rise. Recovering from her as- 
tonishment she said, that while on the way to her 
chamber she had been seized with dizziness and leaned 
against the door for support. 

A prettily concocted story, thought Simkins, and 
though he said nothing he could not repress the smile 
of incredulity that played over his countenance, which 
Mrs. Simkins observing, she demanded, “Do you 
doubt my word, sir?” 

“No, madam, no. All is truth you utter, every 


12 


(E&e Jealous iHrs. ^imktns 


word. You wouldn't stoop to such an act as look- 
ing through a key-hole. You wouldn't. It isn’t char- 
acteristic of you, madam. It isn't. Your nature 
wouldn't suffer you to stoop to such baseness, it 
wouldn't;" and continuing in this strain for several 
moments he stood fairly aghast at his own audacity, 
and the bewilderment of his wife who had never been 
addressed by him in such a manner before. 

Mrs. Simpkins's bewilderment, however, was of 
very brief duration, and ended with the exclamation: 
“Call me Madam, will you? I’ll Madam you," as 
she chased after Simpkins round a table in a mad 
effort to reach him. 

The scramble, for such it truly was, resulted only 
in displacing several books which fell upon the floor 
and Simkins’ fortunate escape from the room while 
his wife, candle in hand, muttering threats against 
her husband when she should catch him, wended her 
way upstairs to bed. 

Poor Simkins, what could have possessed him? 
Did he not know the dignity of Mrs. Simkins could 
never brook being spoken to in such a manner? 

Of course he did, or his experience would have 
gone for nothing. Waiting till she had fallen asleep 
he went upstairs in his stockings, listened attentively 
at the chamber door, entered and stole quietly to bed. 


CHAPTER III 


Each day shall pattern that it follows; 

Each and all a copy to the world 
Of wedded bliss immutable. 

“The Disconsolate Monarch." 

T HE morning dawned bright and clear. The 
sun had long been up when Simkins awoke. 
He had passed a miserable night. Every 
turn and uneasy movement of his wife as she lay in 
bed had found its vibration in his nervous system, 
and it was near morning when he fell asleep, from 
sheer exhaustion. To his great surprise she had al- 
ready risen and preceded him downstairs, without 
waging him as was her custom ; a circumstance which 
filled him with the worst suspicions. 

Dressing himself quickly he followed, and entering 
the breakfast room, saw his wife knitting before the 
fire. She laid aside her work at once and took a seat 
at the table which was already prepared for break- 
fast. 

Simkins, looking sheepishly at her, did likewise, 
but his wife studiously averted her gaze, remained 
silent and commenced to eat in a quick and deter- 
mined manner. Fipps, one of the servants, who al- 
ways waited at table during meal hour, was told on 
this occasion that his services, when wanted, would 
be called for, and he gladly departed. 

Simkins’s appetite was poor that morning. For 
that matter he seemed to not care, whether he ate or 


14 


<We Ions S>tmfunfi 


not. Evidently in need of a tonic, his wife was not 
long in administering one. He was all submission 
and cast imploring eyes at her, as he would say, “For- 
give me, darling, forgive me/’ yet dared not. 

Unable to restrain herself longer, Mrs. Simkins 
now burst forth with the words, “Well, sir,” an ex- 
clamation which caused her husband to shake nerv- 
ously in his seat. “So, sir, after the base attack 
you made upon me last night, you have the audacity 
to sit at my table, and not one word of apology from 
you.” 

“What shall I say?” inquired Mr. Simkins, humbly. 

“What shall you say ? Have you no tongue ? 
Where are your books of which you read so much?” 

“In the library,” replied Simkins, scarcely knowing 
what he did say. 

“Are they?” added she, contemptuously. “In the 
library, indeed, and what do they teach you I should 
like to know, but to disrespect me, me, your own 
lawful, and too loving wife?” 

Simkins gave vent to his emotions in sighs. 

“And to think that I, Miss Arabella Tubbs, that 
was, the only surviving daughter and heiress — heir- 
ess, mind you — of the late Tobias Tubbs, Esq., tallow 
chandler and gentleman, should have thrown myself 
away on you — you, who never had anything attract- 
ive about you — you, of all the manikins in the world.” 

“Why did you marry me?” ventured Simkins. 

“For very pity of you,” quickly responded Mrs. 
Simkins, with much acerbity, “nothing more, I as- 


d l\t Jealous JHts. i&tmtuns 


15 


sure you, and this is my thanks for it. For this I am 
accorded the treatment which you are daily giving 
me, making life miserable for me, and all for those 
women whom I know you are in constant correspond- 
ence with. O, that I might but get some clue to 
them. Don’t speak, sir. Don’t contradict me, sir,” 
and gesticulating wildly, she extended her long and 
bony arm across the table — at this moment as if to ag- 
gravate the matter, in his nervousness, Simpkins 
upset, spreading the contents of the coffee pot which 
stood near him, upon the table cloth. This incident 
was immediately and strongly reflected in his wife’s 
countenance, and caused him to hasten toward the 
door, where, standing and looking at her, he gave 
innocent and expressionless utterance to the excla- 
mation, “Bah,” and left the room. 

He was now willing to assume any risk to amelio- 
rate his condition, not excepting even so great a one 
as that implied by the surreptitious borrowing of 
his wife’s favorite saddle mare. So great, indeed, was 
Mrs. Simkins’s fondness for this animal that she had 
discarded its purchased name and bestowed upon it 
her own abbreviated and sweet-sounding substitute, 
that of “Bella.” 

Proceeding to the stable he ordered the mare to 
be saddled at once, intending at all hazards to ride to 
the house of his friend Tibbins, who had so grievous- 
ly disappointed him the night before. 

For two years, the extent of her ownership, he had 
never once crossed her back, nor dared he in Mrs. 


16 


Cjje Jealous jlrs. &tmtuns 


Simkins’s presence suggest such an act. But two 
alternatives, however, were open to him, that of 
walking the entire distance to his friend’s house, 
some sixteen or seventeen miles, or the taking of the 
only remaining animal in the stable, an old cart horse 
long used in labor on and about the premises. 

That Simkins was without a horse that he could 
call his own, was due entirely to the fear of his wife 
that the possession of such an animal would open a 
too easy channel of communication between him 
and those imaginary female acquaintances, whom she 
located as residing in that and the adjacent villages, 
and thus it was, that while Mrs. Simkins was taking 
her airings he was expected by that lady to remain 
at home, either in the library or engaged in pruning 
or planting or overseeing the men at their labor, after 
which she would regale him with a full account of 
her drive and its incidents, a method of transmitting 
pleasure very characteristic of the lady in question. 

Everything being in readiness “Bella,” clean-limbed 
and saucy-looking, was led saddled from the stable. 
Her first glance was at Simkins. Whether she sus- 
pected his intentions, or not, her subsequent actions 
must determine. Certain it is, that, with every at- 
tempt to approach her she reared and lunged in so 
frightful a manner that Simkins even then was dis- 
posed to submit to what he called his inevitable fate, 
and relinquish the journey. 

Animated by a spirit of mischief, the stableman 
urged him to repeated and fruitless efforts to place 


GL\>t jealous Jftra* ^tmtuns 


17 


his foot in the stirrup. As a final resort “Bella” was 
led back into the stable where, with the aid of the 
servant, he at last succeeded in gaining the saddle. 

This act accomplished, “Bella” unceremoniously 
cleared the stable, leaving as a memento of the oc- 
casion, Simkins’s hat, which was knocked from his 
head by contact with the door frame. 

Having reached the yard she made for the gate at 
once — which, luckily, was open — and passing thence, 
proceeded at a galloping pace down the lane in spite 
of his pulling and whoas to prevent it. 

If it be true, as intimated, that Simkins was never 
intended by nature for business pursuits, it is equally 
true that that Dame, in her handicraft, had never 
framed him for the exercise of the saddle. 

Imagine a man exceedingly short in stature, and 
very fleshy, with dumpy legs. Imagine those legs 
spread out at either side from his body. Imagine 
him hatless, the perspiration streaming down his fiery 
colored face without the power to wipe it. Imagine 
the utter despair as depicted in his countenance, and 
his efforts to maintain his position. I say, imagine 
all these, and you have before you as grotesque a 
figure as can well be imagined. He had ridden two 
miles already, as yet with very little cessation of 
speed. Would she never cease running? He had 
tugged so long and vigorously at the reins that his 
strength was exhausted. Once it occurred to him 
to run her headlong into a stone wall by the road- 


18 


QLfyt 3Tealottd Jftra. J&umfung 


side, but fearing the consequences to himself of such 
an act abandoned it. 

His condition, bad as he supposed it to have been, 
was now infinitely worse. How gladly would he ex- 
change it for the worst he had heretofore experi- 
enced — wife and all. 

Oh! that he had never undertaken this journey, or 
that he had listened to the advice of his friend and 
never married, for not to have married was not to have 
started on this journey, and not to have started on 
this journey, was not to be in the predicament in 
which he now found himself. 

These and kindred thoughts flashed rapidly 
across his mind. But it was not intended that he 
should remain longer in his unpleasant position, com- 
ing to a sharp turn in the road, “Bella” suddenly en- 
countered a large drove of cattle that completely 
blocked the way. Seeing no chance of escape in that 
direction, she bolted, throwing Simkins head and heels 
upon the ground. Relieved of her burden “Bella” 
cast an inquiring glance at him as he lay sprawling 
in the mire and retracing her steps was soon lost in 
the distance. 

Although bruised he was yet able to rise, which 
he had to do very quickly, to avoid the cattle that 
were all but upon him. 

The driver, a young lad, was afraid that, as he, or 
rather his cattle, had been the cause of the accident, 
the gentleman would be revenged on him for it, but 
Simkins said nothing to him, and the boy fearing 


C&e Sealottfi Sbtmfung 


19 


lest he might change his mind, whipped up his cat- 
tle and made off as rapidly as he could. 

Simkins was in a dilemma. The distance to the 
nearest habitation was a full mile at least, a fact which 
troubled him in no small degree for so chafed was he 
with hard riding that he could scarcely stand, to say 
nothing of walking. 

He now decided to abandon the trip. Abandon the 
attempt to cure his wife of her jealousy, at least for 
the present, and return, if possible, in time to escape 
the consequences which a discovery of his absence 
would inevitably bring upon him, but “Bella, ” what 
of her? Would she, horse-like, return home, or take 
it into her stubborn head to seek pastures new, and 
perhaps never be seen or heard of more. 

Selecting a stone by the roadside he sat down to 
rest and for deliberation, but he soon discovered that 
deliberation to a man in his predicament was con- 
ducive of anything but rest, so as time was passing 
he concluded to emulate the determination of the boy, 
Nelson, on his way to school in an almost impossible 
snow-storm, and regardless of wife and consequences, 
push on his journey as he best could. Luckily, be- 
fore proceeding far, he was overtaken by a horse and 
wagon, whose driver, a rough-looking English lad, 
replied cheerfully to his salutation, and in answer to 
his fears, assured him of the gentleness of the animal 
he was driving. 

To be brief, bedraggled as he was, Simkins had the 
gratification finally of alighting at the gate of his 
friend, Thomas Tibbins. 


CHAPTER IV 


What beast, if capable, would act like man, 
Proud man, with reason blessed! 


“The Disconsolate Monarch. ” 


FTER Simkins had gone, and while the pas- 



sion was yet warm within her, his wife 


called her three servants and proceeded, 
single file, herself leading, direct to the library with 
th view of finding among her husband’s books and 
papers the proofs of his infidelity. 

In her jealousy she would have none but male 
servants, of whom she employed three, in various 
capacities in and about the premises. Perfect igno- 
ramuses were they, with about the bulk of one man’s 
brains distributed among them. Standing In mortal 
fear of Mrs. Simkins, they were ever on the watch 
for her whereabouts. She only tolerated them be- 
cause of her inability to secure better servants and 
having them remain under the treatment she accorded 
them. 

To the many suggestions of her husband that her 
own labors would be lessened by employing female 
help in the household duties, she would say, “women 
are not equal to the doing of it,” and then glancing 
at Simkins, would note what effect, if any, her remark 
might have on him. 

Fipps, one of the help in question, acted in the ca- 
pacity of head, or first servant, and such treatment 


C&e Jealous f&tm&ma 


21 


as he received he accorded them, the servants under 
him. 

But let us return to Mrs. Simkins and her doings 
in the library. Never was woman more interested in 
the work before her. Down comes a package of neat- 
ly filed documents which until examined she firmly 
believes to be the very proofs she is searching for, 
and now another, and another — and still another file 
is tumbled down and searched through without suc- 
cess. Surely there must be some secret drawer in 
which he conceals them, and acting on this belief, she 
sounds the cabinet front and rear. 

For one of her years, may it not be truly said, she 
should have had better sense. The fact is she had 
reached an age at which in some persons conviction is 
impossible. 

Some long time was passed in silence and the deep 
study of the multifarious documents which were still 
being handed down from the upper shelves, and now 
lay in a confused heap before her, many of which had 
grown yellow with age. In many the characters were 
almost obliterated and defied deciphering. These 
Mrs. Simkins consigned instantly to the flames. 

“For my part,” said Mrs. Simkins, poring over 
a volume which she had just taken from one of the 
shelves, “For my part, I never could see what benefit 
is to be got out of books.” 

“Nor I, either,” ventured Fipps, who thought he 
ought at least to say something, anything to agree 
with his mistress. 


22 


CI)E batons Jftrai. H>imtuns 


“Whatever may be said in their favor,” continued 
she, “by the many fools who love and read them.” 

“Fools they certainly be,” again spoke up Fipps, 
somewhat encouraged by his previous effort. 

“They benefit none but the evil one, whose agents 
I verily believe them to be. I have known persons of 
both sexes, old and young, to be so taken up with 
them that they have wasted hours in reading them. 
I would I had the power,” continued she, with a sigh, 
“I would prohibit the publishing of all books of what- 
soever kind or character, nor would I except the news- 
papers, which I look upon as the conveyances of 
wicked ideas, and consequently the origin of half 
the trouble with which the world is afflicted. I would 
restore things to their primitive condition during 
which papers were an evil not dreamed of.” 

Concluding, she looked at her servants as though 
she would have them express their approval of her 
sentiments. 

Fipps, more forward and intelligent than the other 
servants, not only nodded his assurance of the cor- 
rectness of all she had spoken, but sought to strength- 
en his approval specifically by adding, in other words, 
that he himself was strongly in favor of a primitive 
condition of things, or any other condition, he cared 
not a farthing what, if only his mistress desired that 
it should be so. 

Mrs. Simkins now turned her eyes inquiringly on 
the other servants, each of whom looked at the other 


GT&e ^Tealottfit IHmktna 


23 


in blank wonderment, and not knowing what to say 
they smiled lugubriously and said nothing. 

Taking another book from one of the shelves and 
without opening it, she exclaimed, “Cook book, in- 
deed !” “What should my husband with a cook 
book? It may prejudice him against my own cook- 
ery, which, though not so complete, perhaps, as that 
which appears herein, is yet good enough for him and 
for me. Therefore let it be cast in the fire, not for 
any feeling I hold against it as a book, but for the 
baneful influence it might work in my husband/’ The 
volume having been handed to Fipps, he took it upon 
himself to open and look in it, saying, “It is a cook 
book, ma’am, for sure,” for I read here “How to 
roast a goose.” 

“Never mind,” quickly spoke up Mrs. Simkins, let 
the book be placed in the fire as I told you. There 
are more geese in this world than wear feathers, or 
are mentioned in cook books, I can tell you, and I 
could name one not the least of them, were it proper 
in me to do so.” 

“You mean me, Ma’am, I’m sure, for only this 
morning you called me one.” 

“I paid you an unintentional compliment,” replied 
Mrs. Simpkins, looking on him frowningly. 

Another volume, “The Lives of the Queens of Eng- 
land, with Portraits,” was handed down. “Queens, 
eh!” muttered Mrs. Simkins, as she gazed through 
her spectacles into the work; “I’ll queen him,” and the 
“Queens of England;” following the previous work, 


24 


Cfce Jealous iflrs. Udmktns 


were soon chasing one another in flames up the chim- 
ney. 

Would she never cease in her work of destruction? 
Not she. Having now fully entered into the spirit 
of it, she would pursue it to the bitter end. 

A large volume in red Morocco standing conspicu- 
ously on one of the lower shelves next met the argus 
eye of this destroyer, and she asked what book it 
was. 

“It is a book called Shakespeare,” replied Fipps. 
“And no well-meaning man would Have to do with 
it,” cried Mrs. Simkins, arising quickly, and snatch- 
ing the volume, “for a greater rogue never lived. I 
know his full history well, and am no book reader, 
either. Therefore you see plain enough that knowl- 
edge comes not of reading, and my advice to you is 
to leave books alone, or what little goodness is in you 
will be lost to you forever, but this caution I believe 
is needless, for if I mistake not, none of you excepting 
Fipps, can read a single word ; certainly not pro- 
nounce it properly even if you succeeded in doing so. 

“If you please, ma’am,” spoke up Fipps, encour- 
aged by the compliment Mrs. Simkins had just paid 
him, “I believe I could write a book myself.” 

“I have no doubt you could write a book as well as 
many who waste their time at it, but for your own 
sake, and for the sake of those who might read it, 
avoid doing so, besides ’tis admitted of all men that 
they who write books have no brains for the doing 
of anything else. But as I was going to tell you, this 


©be jealous ;prg. &tmfunc 


25 


Shakespeare, as he called himself, but whose true 
name I have forgotten, was a very bad man, who, 
the better to work his rascalities, took to himself this 
odd name; therefore let the book be cast in the fire 
with the others, for it argues no good mind in my 
husband to have it here.” 

“If I may speak so much,” ventured Fipps, “this 
man was a great genius and writer.” 

“The greater the genius, the greater the rascal,” 
“therefore, as I said, let it be cast in the fire.” 

Fipps, as before, opened the volume, and com- 
menced to read, which Mrs. Simkins observing, she 
said, “Well, what think you now of this great writer, 
as you are pleased to call him?” 

“A blood-thirsty rogue, sure enough, ma’am, by his 
own words.” 

“Let me see the words you speak of.” The lines 
having been pointed out, she read them aloud, as fol- 
lows : 

44 Now could I drink hot blood, 

And do such bitter business as the day 
Would quake to look on.” 

Dropping the book with the exclamation, “Did I 
not tell you so?” she ordered Fipps to throw it in the 
fire at once, which was accordingly done. “And, now 
that I remember it, this same Shakespeare it was, 
who for jealousy, smothered in her own bed, with her 
own pillow, his own innocent wife, Desmerona to 
death.” 

“Horrible!” exclaimed Fipps. 


26 


QLl jc J§>tmltinfi 


“Horrible !” exclaimed the other servants. 

Now having read this book many times, as no doubt 
he has, why might not the mind of my husband have 
become infected with its malignant poison? Why 
might not it already have received the germ of jeal- 
ousy, which growing and spreading as jealousy alone 
can, end finally in a repetition of the terrible event 
which I have just narrated.” 

Fipps thought it very possible. 

Mrs. Simkins shuddered at the thought, and seiz- 
ing the poker commenced to stir up the blackened 
mass that it might more readily burn. 

Turning to her servants, she said : “That you may 
avoid for yourselves one cause of trouble in the future, 
I will state to you now, that being your mistress, ’tis 
proper you should agree with me in all I say, no mat- 
ter how absurd may seem my statements, nor how 
opposite your own opinions thereto. As servants you 
should have no opinion save that of your mistress, 
and let me tell you now, for the last time” — and she 
gesticulated with the poker which she still held — “let 
me tell you now for the last time, that if I say black 
is white, it must be white, be it never so black.” 

“It is white,” said Fipps. 

“Certainly it is white,” cried both the other serv- 
ants. 

“What’s white?” queried Mrs. Simkins. 

“Everything,” answered Fipps, to which the other 
servants quickly and repeatedly joined and shouted, 
“Everything ! Everything !” 


Cbe 3 TeaIou 0 &untutta 


27 


Mrs. Simkins smiled. “I find you willing to com- 
ply with all I say, which, as servants, as I said, it is 
proper you should. I hire you not for your opin- 
ions nor for your wisdom. If you have wisdom in 
you so much the better for yourselves, and my ad- 
vice to you is that you use it to place yourselves in 
means; for you will find as you grow in years, that, 
wealth more than wisdom will carry one successfully 
through this life.” 

“Will it please you, ma’am, to increase my means,” 
asked Fipps, hesitatingly. “I had intended to ask 
you, ma’am, no end of times, but feared to do so.” 

“Was ever heard such impudence in a servant,” 
cried Mrs. Simkins, looking indignantly at Fipps; 
“you now are more than paid. If you utter another 
word, another word, mind you, I’ll cut you a shilling 
a month.” 

“Fipps hung his head and remained silent. The fire 
had burned low, excepting the charred remains which 
lay in the fireplace, there existed no evidence of the 
work of destruction that had there been consummated. 

“Here’s a book I would like to read myself,” said 
Fipps, taking still another volume from one of the 
upper shelves ; ’tis called, “The Art of Making Love.” 

“What’s that?” exclaimed Mrs. Simkins, taking 
the book and running her eyes hastily over the title 
page. “Well as I live and hope for salvation, of all 
the books yet found in a library, and that library my 
husbands ! Library, forsooth ; a love correspondence 
agency I should call it. So, Mr. Lovemonger, I have 


28 


QL j)e 3TcaIou0 bunking 


you at last where I can reach you, have I? I knew 
’twas sure to come, no wickedness but finds its end. 
I had rather than all things else I came into posses- 
sion of this book, and now believe books have a value 
which I never before gave them. So this is being 
buried in your tomes, as you call it, while your poor, 
silly creature of a wife, solitary and alone, is working 
her finger tips off in an effort to please you.” 

“What’s the book all about, ma’am?” inquired 
Fipps, who was anxious to learn what was in the 
work that should cause his mistress to make such an 
ado over it. 

“A something I hope you know nothing about, you 
never tasted the froth of making love, nor sipped the 
bitter and nauseating dregs of matrimony.” 

“Once, once only, I came very close to it, ma’am.” 

“The more goose you, who was the other?” 

“A girl, ma’am, but she got away after all the trou- 
ble I had been to going to see her and the presents I 
gave her.” 

“Did you propose and she refuse you?” 

“I told her I would marry her, and she said ‘No.’ 
Then I said give me my presents back, and she said 
‘No,’ again, and told me I was a Hydrocephalass.” 

“What’s that?” 

“That’s it. If I only knew what it meant I would 
then know what I am.” 

“Something complimentary, no doubt. Did you 
like her?” 

“In some sort, ma’am; but she’s any fellow’s jilt 


Cjje Sfealotts; i&tm&tna 


29 


now for all me, and think of it, the presents cost me 
all the money I had, and all I could borrow of my 
bosom friend, Peter Boulder, as well.” 

“Then you lost the girl, time and money ?” 

“All, and my bosom friend, Peter, too, who since 
then puts his fist at my nose and tells me I must fight 
or pay him back, which, as you know, no truly honest 
and well-meaning man can afford to do.” 

“Worse and worse. So you lost the girl, time, 
money and also a friend, all for a girl?” 

“All for nothing, ma’am; for I have nothing to 
show for my loss.” 

“Am I to understand that you consider a girl as 
nothing?” 

“Oh, no, ma’am ; a girl is everything until she gets 
you, and as good as nothing ever afterwards. I’ll 
none of them, at least for the present.” 

“Come, now, I will ask you a plump question and 
see that you answer it plumply. You would marry 
her now, would you not, if she asked you?” 

“Truly, ma’am; I have a kind of leaning toward 
marriage, and as girls go, I might do worse, perhaps, 
than to take her, though, indeed, I would she saw 
straight, then would I know where she was looking, 
and what she was looking at.” 

“Love turns all to favor and to prettiness.” 

“Love may, but a poor man, ma’am, must look 
out for himself, and as my friend that was, once told 
me, marriage is no pastime.” 

“Many, indeed, think so ; but I must tell you this — 


30 


C&e S'ealoufi f&v*. bunking 


a girl and money may be replaced always — a friend 
but seldom, and time never ; but, of course, you 
meet her sometimes and smile on each other still, is 
it not so ? I have heard of such.” 

“Oh, no, ma’am; she turns up her nose when she 
sees me, which I take very ill of her; indeed, so long 
as she holds my presents back.” 

“Yes, that would seem to make some difference, 
but different persons express love differently, you 
know. For myself I would consider it an indication 
that her love for you is not such as should go with 
marriage. What think you?” 

“Faith, ma’am, I don’t know what to think.” 

“I will tell you. Think yourself well off, that you 
are single, and remember that he who is unable to 
care for himself is but poorly able to maintain and 
provide comforts for another, and that of all persons 
a wife. Have you any correct conception of the word 
‘Wife?’ ” 

“A girl you marry to take care of you.” 

“Hand me the book and be seated, and see that 
you speak not till you be spoken to. I shall as soon 
fly as fill your vacuum.” 

The conversation, by far the most extended that 
had yet passed between them, advanced Fipps con- 
siderably in the estimation of his fellows, and they 
looked upon him approvingly. He motioned them 
with head and hand to be seated, which they did hes- 
itatingly, and only after he himself had set the ex- 
ample, distributing themselves about the apartment. 


©fte Jealous JHrs* Sumtttaa 


31 


Mrs. Simkins, meanwhile, was deeply absorbed in 
the book, “The Art of Making Love,” the leaves of 
which she was constantly turning, pausing at inter- 
vals to read such passages as seemed to her most 
interesting. Looking up and around the room she 
arose suddenly, and throwing the book on the table, 
exclaimed : 

“Well, I never! How dare you sit in my pres- 
ence, on my furniture, and in my library? Was ever 
seen such impertinence in servants? If I did my duty 
I would discharge each and all of you this minute. 
Soon you will claim possession of the entire prem- 
ises, , tis coming to that fast.” 

Fipps, the spokesman on this, as on all other occa- 
sions, informed her that she herself had ordered them 
to be seated. 

“I never said so, nor is it possible that I could say 
so. Here, take the book and read from it aloud. I 
do not care to read the book myself, and yet would 
know something of its contents.” 

“It says here, ma’am,” said Fipps, reading, “Let the 
wife treat her husband with as much respect and at- 
tention as she does another wife’s husband.” 

“Humph! exclaimed Mrs. Simkins. “It says that 
does it, and who doesn’t do so, I should like to 
know ?” 

“The wife’s age should never exceed that of her 
husband,” continued Fipps, still reading; “nor ap- 
proximate it by at least two years. Indeed, it were 


32 


dLljt 3eaIottfis bunking 


better the wife be twenty years his junior than that 
she exceed him in years, if only by one day.” 

'‘That will do,” cried Mrs. Simkins, “read no more. 
The book is useless for the purpose for which it was 
written. I know something of the proprieties gov- 
erning such matters, myself.” 

“Shall I burn it, ma’am?” 

“By no means, ’tis the only evidence I have so far 
obtained, and it will be strange, indeed, but I shall 
make him wince under it and confess himself.” 

“What’s this?” said Fipps. “Why, here on the fly 
leaf is a woman’s name and other writing.” 

Mrs. Simkins reached for the book hastily and 
read the name, Polly Pillowpull, and beneath it the 
following lines and verses. The writing showed dis- 
tinctly the hands of two persons, a lady’s and a gen- 
tleman’s, the latter the writer of the lines and verses, 
doubtless being a friend and admirer, to whom, not 
unlikely, the lady had presented the volume in a play- 
ful humor with her autograph: 

When charming Polly walking goes, 

It matters not, or street or lane 
Enchanted, all would be her beaux 
And following, gaze and gaze again. 

And eveiy bird that past her flies, 

With praises sweet for bounties given, 

Entranced, returning feasts his eyes 
And trills aloud his voice to Heaven. 

And when at night in balmy sleep 
Upon her downy bed she lies, 

In dreams, the angels do her greet 
And bear her skyward to the skies. 


<Et)e Jealous iflra* £>tmtuns 


33 


'Skyward to the skies/ O that’s abominable, I 
might have said, 'and singing bear her to the skies/ 
Heigho, I will e’en follow the bent of my muse, and 
hie me to bed and to sleep at once, and O, ecstatic 
thought, dream of Polly.” 

Mrs. Simkins pored over the name and verses a 
long time in silence, apparently anxious to come to a 
definite opinion as to whether the characters, which 
she concluded were disguised — were those of her hus- 
band, and as if unwilling to rest the matter on hei 
own judgment, she turned to Fipps as her only re- 
lief. Fipps very importantly assured her of his ability 
to absolutely decide the question — having often seen 
her husband’s handwriting — and a specimen having 
been obtained, they forthwith commenced to make 
comparisons and to discuss the matter in all its details, 
but, as is usual in most such cases, without coming to 
any mutual agreement; for each held divergent opin- 
ions, that of Fipps being in favor of her husband, and 
against his having had anything to do with the writ- 
ing. Any feeling of uncertainty that Mrs. Simkins 
had at first entertained as to the correctness of her 
own opinion lay in the fact that her husband had no 
talent in the line of poetry, but that he had resorted 
to the now not uncommon practice of appropriati'ng 
the ideas and lines of others, admitted of no doubt, 
and her opinion thus influenced and strengthened had 
been made up and fixed accordingly. 

"I can make poetry,” spoke up Fipps, on hearing 


34 


GTjje JJealotta jUra. Stmfetiui 


his mistress mention her husband’s inability to indite 
verse. 

“Your genius is of so heavy and burdensome a 
kind it holds you down and prevents you from rising 
and being anything above what you now are, and may 
yet prove the instrument of your destruction,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Simkins, frowning on Fipps, whom she 
now commenced to berate in a manner which she 
alone could, telling him the handwriting was so un- 
mistakably that of her husband that none but the 
veriest noodle could, under any circumstances, bring 
himself to believe otherwise. 

Mrs. Simkins sat resting in a chair close to one of 
the cabinets. Above her, upon a high stool stood 
Fipps, again engaged, or pretending to be engaged, in 
a further search of any paper or letters that might 
have been hidden behind the books. Said she, “I 
grow weary of this searching. I have a great mind 
to give it over.” 

“So you should, ma’am,” added Fipps, who was 
himself very tired and anxious to get away. 

“How do you know that?” cried Mrs. Simkins, very 
sharply. 

“Didn’t you say, ma’am, I was to agree with you 
in all you said?” In his nervousness he let fall a 
small volume entitled, “A Cure for Jealousy,” which 
he happened to be holding. It struck Mrs. Simkins 
fair and square on the nose, knocking therefrom her 


Cfoe Jealous Jflrs. gumktns 


35 


golden spectacles and causing her to fall backward 
in her chair in a half swoon. 

Believing her dead, the terror-stricken Fipps 
jumped from the stool, and hastened toward the 
door. “Come,” said he, “let us go, let us leave at 
once. There is not a judge in all England but will 
hang us.” 

Paying no heed to what Fipps had spoken, one of 
the servants ran and brought a basin of cold water, 
with which he bathed her forehead copiously. Mrs. 
Simkins revived, and looking daggers at Fipps that 
worthy incontinently fled the apartment. 


f 


CHAPTER V 

What’s fame but breath — a grave; 

Perchance , a monument; — a monument, 

A mockery, what more, to teach man 
What he is, not what he was. 

“ The Disconsolate Monarch.” 

T HOMAS TIBBINS, “poet” and friend of 
Simkins, was a little over six feet in height, 
of spare build and fifty. A bachelor, and 
opposed to matrimony, he had never failed to run his 
arguments against it, despite which, however, as he 
himself often said, he might have had his choice of 
several of the first ladies in the county. 

A man of much vanity was he, with an unfalter- 
ing belief in his own poetical abilities. Bald-pated, he 
had allowed the fringe of hair, — which from ear to ear 
encircled the lower part of his head, to grow long and 
rest upon his shoulders in imitation of the earlier 
poets. A vest buttoned to the chin, and a wide collar 
overspreading his coat, added not a little to the singu- 
larity of his appearance, and made him, with his ex- 
cessive height and attenuated form, the cynosure and 
jest of many beholders. 

Indifferent as to exercise, he spent much time in 
reading and writing; that portion which was not thus 
employed was passed at the neighboring village inn, 
whither he sometimes repaired for ale and amuse- 
ment. Unlike Simkins, he possessed means of his 


{£(je STealoud jHrci, §>tmktns 


37 


own, the kindly remembrance of an uncle, some years 
deceased. 

The house, a rusty reminder of what it had once 
been, was the property of a Mrs. Worthington, a se- 
date widow of fifty-five, and she and her adopted 
daughter, Fanny, now occupied it. With them Tib- 
bins had for two years boarded. 

With a bottle of the “best brew” on the table be- 
side him, he was frequently to be found up at one 
o'clock in the morning as busily engaged at his 
“pleasure,” as he termed it as though his life de- 
pended upon it. 

The night-belated villagers often asked themselves, 
what on earth old Tibbins could be doing to keep him 
up till that late hour. Indeed, the light in his room 
had often served them on dark nights as a beacon 
from which to take their reckoning. 

A few pebbles thrown at his window by some of 
his waggish, inn-keeping companions, would so fright- 
en him that it never failed to send him and his inspi- 
rations to bed on the next instant. 

He had frequently sent his “poems” to London — 
to the publishers there — but in a few instances only 
had he been favored with a reply, and more annoy- 
ing, his MSS. had seldom been returned. “This is 
but a prosy world at best, and little given to the 
pleasures of poetry,” he would often exclaim as he 
sought consolation in his belief that posterity, that 
sets all things right, would at last make famous the 


38 




name of Tibbins by placing it in the front rank of 
the poets. 

Many and many a night had poor Mrs. Worthing- 
ton and her daughter yielded to the whim of the 
“poet.” Many and many a night in passing the 
“poet’s” room while on the way to their chamber, 
had they been persuaded to enter and listen to a re- 
cital of his recently composed canto; so annoying in- 
deed, had this matter become to them that they were 
finally compelled to steal their way upstairs to pre- 
vent Tibbins hearing them. 

Betty, the maid of all work, was often beguiled into 
neglecting her duties on promises of shilling pay- 
ments, promises seldom fulfilled; in fact, she became 
the poet’s most frequent auditor, sitting, broom in 
hand, an attentive listener: he would prance up and 
down the room declaiming in a loud voice and gesticu- 
lating like a lunatic; while Betty, unable to restrain 
her laughter, applauded him to the echo. Many and 
many a time had Mrs. Worthington been compelled 
to call Betty to resume her duties downstairs. 

“From poetry to pot hooks, from sublimity to 
degradation,” the “poet” often exclaimed, as Betty 
would rush from the room in answer to her mistress’s 
call. 

Mrs. Worthington, in her time, had been a reigning 
belle of society. Highly accomplished, and possessed 
of extraordinary beauty, she had been much sought 
by the fashionable world of London ; but some sorrow 
or circumstance had occasioned her withdrawal from 


©be jflra. £5>tmking 


39 


its fascinating allurements at an early age, and she 
had settled down in her present home to spend her 
remaining years in a quiet and unobtrusive manner. 
Much of her former gaiety would now and again 
manifest itself in spite of an apparent effort to pre- 
vent it, after which she would again subside into the 
staid and matronly lady she had become. 

There was a certain something in her appearance, 
and demeanor, which seemed to say, Mrs. Worthing- 
ton could tell an interesting story if she would. If 
she possessed a secret she kept it so closely locked in 
her bosom that I doubt if any one would even hope 
to wrest it from her. 

A loud barking of the dog announced Simkins’ ar- 
rival at Mrs. Worthington’s house. Betty, ever on 
the alert for newcomers, ran and opened the door, 
ushered him upstairs and into the “poet’s” apart- 
ments. Dropping his pen, Tibbins advanced to greet 
him. 

“Tell me what has brought you so unexpectedly to 
visit me, and in such a plight?” 

“Question me not,” said Simkins, dropping into a 
chair, “but give me of that cheer and refreshments 
which, as you say, my condition would seem to stand 
me so much in need of.” 

“What has happened? For, indeed, if your condi- 
tion and countenance be taken as indications, none 
but a woman could have had to do with you.” 

“I can shape my conversation to nothing but my 


40 


C&e Selous ^tmtune 


stomach, and to that which may relieve it. In brief, 
I am marvelously hungry.” 

Betty having spread the table, Simkins became at 
once engaged in testing the relative merits of the 
dishes it presented. Meanwhile Tibbins lit his pipe 
and resting his long legs on the back of a chair, leaned 
backward and watched the smoke as it ascended in 
whiffs to the ceiling. 

His appetite appeased, Simkins arose, and declared 
in a manner which admitted of no doubbt that he felt 
like a new man. He now entered into a detailed ac- 
count of every circumstance which had lately trans- 
pired between himself and his wife, not forgetting his 
furious ride and sudden fall. 

“Believe me, it is another proof of the unrighteous- 
ness of the marital tie or folly, as 1 might term it,” 
said Tibbins, “and let me tell you, I think we commit 
great sin in not going among our fellowman to ex- 
hort him against every alliance with woman. How 
say you to it? I, too, exhort him, and hold up you 
as a living proof in support of my argument.” 

“So far as concerns yourself,” replied Simkins, 
“you may do as your judgment shall direct. For my 
part, I have ever held that arguments are at best but 
windy matter, and I was ever a fool in them. So let 
me not show it, therefore, among people when I have 
no need to do so.” 

“It seems at once practicable and possessed of hu- 
manity,” resumed Tibbins, now thoroughly warmed 
to the subject, “let us go together into the world, 


8Ti>e ^ealouff iHrs. £>tmfetns 


41 


for I would not restrict our travels to any particular 
place or country, and let us make known to man the 
danger with which he is surrounded, and of which he 
seems so ignorant. Let us exhort him to avoid that 
sex which has ever been the ruination of mortal man.” 

“Do you not know that they would leave no part 
of you together?” 

“I admit the ferocity of the sex, yet would I risk 
every danger for the pleasure it would give me to thus 
vex and annoy them.” 

“I came here to solicit your advice as to how I 
might rid myself of one woman and you would have 
me go and face a number of them.” 

“By so doing you may revenge yourself for the 
many vexations caused you by your wife.” 

“I want no revenge, nor anything of them, so they 
give me peace, ’tis all I ask for.” 

Realizing the utter uselessness of further argument 
Tibbins remained silent ; an idea soon seized him how- 
ever, which was, that he would write a poem touching 
his views on matrimony and have it printed and dis- 
tributed among the male residents in his immediate 
vicinity. 

Having eased his mind on this point, he went to 
a pantry, out of which he brought a decanter and 
glasses, also several rolls of MSS., placing the de- 
canter and glasses before Simkins, he proceeded to 
unroll the poems at once, and long rambling affairs 
they were, possessing neither rhyme nor rhythm, 


42 


C&e Serous jfttfii. J^tmktns 


filled with unmeaning words, uncouth comparisons 
and embracing every topic which had even been 
written upon. 

“There are many styles, and many designating terms 
used in poetry,” said Tibbins, continuing to untie and 
arrange the MSS. in proper form on the table, 
“which in the course of my recital I will give you 
examples of, including the sentimental, which I sel- 
dom indulge in, preferring to leave it to rhyming 
scribblers, and love-sick schoolgirls.” 

“Which style do you prefer?” 

“The style I have adopted is one best suited to the 
bent of my genius, for in it I am bound by no known 
rules of writing, but may ascend and descend, go 
crosswise or otherwise, as the vagaries of genius shall 
carry me.” 

“In what estimation is this style held?” 

“Genius is an uncontrollable power and its results 
must be accepted, unquestioned, as sublime.” 

“But is it so accepted?” 

“Professed judges, not understanding it, so accept 
it, while the many, having no opinions of their own, 
of course follow the judgment of those who profess 
to know. Understand me, this style of poetry can 
only be adopted to advantage by authors of established 
reputation. In a student it would be looked upon as 
lunacy and consign him to everlasting oblivion.” 

“Being unknown, what profit do you expect to de- 
rive from adopting this style of writing?” 

“Do you suppose I would so debase genius as to 


Clje jealous JHre* J^tmtung 


43 


think of profit ? What care I for profit ? What cares 
genius for profit? Fame I seek — fame all authors 
seek, and few attain. But I shall attain it,” mused 
Tibbins, “when? While I live? No, When I am 
dead? Yes.” 

Having, by this time, untied and arranged his 
manuscripts two deep on the table, he picked out the 
largest of them, and proceeded to lose much time in 
an efifort to assume a becoming attitude for its de- 
livery. 

Being finally ready, he commenced to declaim in a 
loud voice, every now and again striking the table 
with his closed hand, as was his wont, to give force, 
and emphasis to the argument, and casting glances of 
approval at his friend, who in like manner responded. 

Having finished, and without commenting on the 
merit of the work as Simkins had expected he would, 
he picked out another MSS. and again commenced to 
recite, as follows: 

Even as the Sun with purple colored face 
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn — 

“Pardon me,” interrupted Simkins, “but do you 
know that sounds very like the beginning of a poem 
I have frequently read.” 

“Poem you have frequently read,” repeated Tib- 
bins with much assumed indignant surprise. 

“Frequently, and it wasn’t yours either.” 


44 


&!)e JeatoM w. Surnkin* 


‘‘Do you not know that the thoughts of great 
poets often run in the same channel. ,, 

“But not the lines, line for line, as you recited 
them, you will find the words the commencement of 
the well-known poem entitled ‘Venus and Adonis' by 
Shakespeare.” 

Tibbins laughed long and loud, saying that “he had 
merely desired to put Simkins’s knowledge and ap- 
preciation of poetry to the test, and after all, when it 
comes to the question of plagiarism, let me tell you 
that that fellow Shakespeare was himself not averse 
to appropriating a few of the literary trifles belonging 
to others, but be that as it may, I will now recite an 
entirely original creation, an emanation of my own 
brain and genius entitled “Marty and Matilda”, a 
poem founded on love and equal in merit I know to 
that of “Venus and Adonis”, composed by the divine 
William, as some love to term him.” 

“Heavens” muttered Simkins almost audibly, “what 
would I not give were I but back again in my own 
home.” 

During one long and weary half hour was poor 
Simkins compelled to sit there wondering what it all 
meant and wishing “Marty and Matilda” were both 
buried beyond the power of mortal man to resurrect 
them. 

It now occurred to him that he had discovered a 
means whereby his wife might not only be cured of 
jealousy, but be entirely gotten rid of likewise. Oh! 
that he might only induce Tibbins to accompany him 


Cfce Jcaioufi JHra* Suntans 


45 


home and read his poems to his wife, he would be 
the happiest man in the world. 

“There” said Tibbins, laying the MSS. on the table, 
and helping himself to the brandy. “What think you 
of that as an expression of mutual love at first sight ? 
Of the overflow of love if I may so express it? What 
think you of the fertility of the invention? Of the 
sublimity of the sentiment, and of the language? And 
to think of its being mine, mine, from first to finish,” 
and he rubbed his hands in proof of the joy which a 
contemplation of his poem gave him. 

“If my judgment be accepted,” remarked Simkins, 
“this is the best of the poems you have read to-night.” 

“Ah,” uttered Tibbins gleefully, “I knew you would 
say so.” 

“But for all that, its faults are so many, and of so 
inherent a character that, to remedy them, would be 
to re-write the poem in its entirety.” 

“What’s that,” exclaimed Tibbins aghast. 

“Why did you build up the love of the lovers to 
such a height, only to drop them later into the deep- 
est abyss of despair, and finally push Marty from a 
precipice ; sending the lovable Matilda to a nunnery in 
sorrow for life.” 

“This is the most diabolical criticism of a noble 
poem that has ever come under my observation;” 
said Tibbins, pacing excitedly, “and is born, if not of 
the devil, of his first cousin, that green-eyed monster, 
jealousy,” and standing over Simkins in a somewhat 


46 


dLl )e 3Tealott£J piv*, J&tmkms 


menacing manner, he continued, “tell me, what would 
you have me do.” 

“Why didn’t you marry them at the end, and send 
them on life’s journey happy?” 

“Marry Monkeys. Would you have me play the 
truant to my own convicjtions, to my well-known 
feelings against matrimony.” And seating himself 
with his back to Simkins, he sought consolation in 
the brandy, which he reached for and continued to 
sip for some minutes in moody silence. 

Simkins’s eyes, now half closed from want of rest 
and use of the intoxicant, wandered in the direction 
of the mantelpiece, to the clock which was upon the 
stroke of midnight, and he wished himself at rest in 
his own comfortable bed at home. Disappointed, he 
already imagined himself trudging homeward on the 
morrow, minus the advice he expected to receive, and 
he resolved, friend or no friend, to place no trust in 
poets hereafter, and in poet Tibbins in particular, 
contending that as poets live in the sky they are pre- 
vented by the clouds surrounding them from seeing 
all the other persons and things except those that 
pertain to themselves alone. 

Tapping Tibbins on the shoulder that personage 
suddenly and wrathfully arose and confronting Sim- 
kins demanded in no undecided tone, what he wanted. 

“Now that I have listened to a recital of your 
poems replied Simpkins timidly, “let us take up the 
subject of my wife’s jealousy, the subject for the dis- 
cussion of which I came to visit you.” 

“Not now ! Not now !” repeated Tibbins, petulantly, 


QLfyt 3TeaIottB jjHrs* J&tmfems 


47 


as he looked over the MSS. on the table. “Never dis- 
turb a man in the heat and flush of his desires,” and 
selecting still another MS. he added, “now here is a 
trifle which is yet in embryo but which I hope to com- 
plete to my entire satisfaction at the next sitting, you 
will observe in it, not greatness, but the germ of 
greatness that is to be. I have called it “Dan Cupid 
(as seen through the spectacles of Thomas Tibbins, 
Poet.)” and will take occasion to tell you if your 
criticism of the poem is not less embittered with the 
gall of your envy, I shall be constrained to beg you 
to relieve me of the honor of another visit. Let hon- 
esty prevail in all things, say I.” 

Simkins's condition was now such that if he heard 
the words, they conveyed to him no significance what- 
soever, and the poet awaiting no reply, commenced to 
recite the following lines at once. 

Cupid a demon is 

And in angel form appears, 

With face as innocent, 

As e’er to pretty babe is sent. 

And the wings wherewith he flies 
But serve to hoodwink mortal eyes. 

Quick of eye and hand is he, 

While a hunting he doth be. 

Mark him now! his mind is made 
— On some luckless victim laid — 

Forth from out his quiver, he 
Doth draw a shaft, and as quickly 
As even upon the instant, takes his aim 
And rends his victim’s heart a twain. 

And now with all his might and main, 

With joy that he did wound his game, 

He into laughter breaks — 

Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! 

Ah cruel foe — 

What misery he makes. 


48 


QL\>t STcalon* e. Sdmktns 


“This poem, as I mentioned is not entirely to my 
liking,” said Tibbins, stopping short in his recital, 
“but I will soon make it so. ’Tis but a matter of the 
hand, not of the head which has already digested it, 
but let me on with the reading,” and looking towards 
his friend, he observed for the first time that gentle- 
man’s position and the oblivious interest he was mani- 
festing in his recital. 

Simkins’s eyes had closed, his arms hung limp by 
his side, his head inclined backward, his mouth was 
wide open. 

Dropping his manuscript he stood as though trans- 
fixed. He could scarcely believe his friend would 
offer him so great an indignity. Simkins was not 
only asleep, but, O, Horror, he had even now com- 
menced to snore, to snore, as it were, his disapproval 
of the Tibbins poems. 

He stood looking at him a few moments in silence. 
Said he : “I have been to him, that precious and most 
rare of man’s possessions, a friend. And to be 
treated thus. Gratitude has fled, hereafter, to be 
known but as an unmeaning word. Had he kicked 
me I would have said nothing. Had he drawn my 
blood it still might be a matter of forgiveness, but to 
snore in the face of my recital is an insult my dignity 
can never brook. Hang him and his impudence. I 
will be revenged. I will empty this pitcher of water 
in his face if I die for it.” 

At this moment Simkins commenced to mutter in 
his sleep, and Tibbins, in his eagerness to learn what 


©be Jealottf Jflrs. 


49 


he was dreaming of, forgot all about his revenge. He 
placed his ear close to his friend’s mouth, a jumble 
of inarticulate sounds, and a smell of brandy, were 
all that issued from his throat. Success at last 
crowned his efforts. Simkins was engaged in an alter- 
cation with some woman, and that woman, past 
doubt, his wife. At this juncture Mrs. Worthing- 
ton’s terrier, that had entered the room with Betty 
when she brought up Simkins’s supper, commenced to 
growl. “Hush,” said Tibbins, in a low tone. 

“Yes” said Simkins, still dreaming, “I must hush 
and you do all the talking.” 

Unable to restrain himself, Tibbins burst into a fit 
of suppressed laughter. 

“I have known Tibbins a long time,” continued 
Simkins, still dreaming. 

“As I live they are talking of me.” 

“He may not have the wisdom of Solomon,” con- 
tinued Simkins, “but you are not fully justified in 
calling him a fool.” 

“I’ll be hanged if she is,” cried Tibbins aloud. 
Something unusual must now have happened the 
dreamer, for he commenced to shout “murder” as 
loud as he could, and waking swung his short legs 
suddenly around tripping the poet, who fell his length 
upon the floor. 

Simkins was not conscious of having dreamed. He 
saw his friend lying upon the floor, recollected hear- 
ing the cry of murder. A solution of the matter 
flashed through his mind at once. While he slept, 


50 


QLfye 3TeaIottfi i&im&tns 


Tibbins had slept also. Thieves had entered and at- 
tacked his friend. They had knocked him down. Per- 
haps they were still in the house. Perhaps in the 
adjoining room, and with the fear which this sort of 
thinking inspired in him, he shouted “thieves” at the 
top of his voice. Getting up as quickly as he could, 
Tibbins rushed into the adjoining room to secure his 
pistol. In his haste he accidentally discharged a 
barrel of the weapon. 

Simkins, meanwhile, had crawled under the table, 
and endeavored to hide himself as he best could. 
Hearing the report, he was sure Tibbins had found the 
thieves or the thieves Tibbins, he knew not which. 
To add to the occasion the little terrier was tugging 
vigorously in an effort to pull his coat-tail off, or him 
from his hiding place. 

“Tell me,” said he, poking his head from under 
the table, “if they have gone.” 

“Gone! Who’s gone?” 

“The thieves; the thieves,” repeated Simkins. 

“What thieves ? I saw no thieves.” 

“No thieves,” said Simkins, taking courage, and 
striking his head against the table as he issued from 
under it. “No thieves, why, who assaulted you?” 

Unable to restrain himself longer, Tibbins burst 
out with the exclamation, “You’re the biggest, 
littlest coward I ever heard of.” 

“A coward living is better than a brave man 
dead,” quickly responded Simkins, “and I am not lack- 


QL i)c Uealotts Jftrs. J&tmkma 


51 


ing in courage either. In a good cause I could face 
the devil, but the saints preserve me from all thieves/’ 
“And women,” added Tibbins. 

The clock struck one. The MSS. having been rolled 
up and laid carefully away they retired for the night, 
or morning. 


CHAPTER VI 


Your sin is great, 

And every one doth know, great sin doth call 
For punishment as great as is the sin. 

“ The Disconsolate Monarch.” 

N the following morning, Simkins, conscience 



stricken, arose with the sun, and after par- 


taking lightly of tea and toast, which Tib- 
bins himself had prepared, was ready to start on his 
return to the peace and quietness of his own home. 
The boy who had driven him the day before, had 
engaged to convey him the greater part of the way 
back, and was now waiting with horse and wagon 
at the gate. 

He had passed a very restless night, each time he 
closed his eyes visions of wife, of “Bella”, and of 
home flitted like a nightmare across his mind, while 
Tibbins, whose bed he shared, had frequently dis- 
turbed him by muttering in his sleep the lucubrations 
of his own poetry-ridden brain. He was going home, 
a disappointed, and much disheartened, if not a wiser 
man. He had confided in Tibbins to no purpose, he 
felt as though he could sink into his own boots, he 
almost wished the ground might open and receive 
him. 

His wife had always exacted a reason for his ab- 
sence, and he had no reason to doubt but that she 
would do so now. How should he appear before her. 


C&e 3**1®*# jflns. £>tmktn 0 


53 


How pacify her for taking her much-loved mare, 
Tibbins had promised to come and spend a week with 
him, some consolation, but would he keep his prom- 
ise? Would he be content to spend a whole week in 
the company of a woman, against whom he entertained 
so great an antipathy? Would his wife permit him to 
remain if he should come? On both points Simkins 
had his doubts. 

Thus musing, he pursued his journey homeward; 
having reached the top of a high hill it brought to 
view a large expanse of country, he stood and looked 
out upon it. He had often passed over it. Till then 
it had occasioned in him no thought. Each turn of 
his eyes brought with it some new addition of beauty. 
At his feet lay the village with its cluster of pretty 
cottages and its still prettier children, grouped in in- 
nocent pastime before the school-house door, he 
watched their movements, their shouts of merriment 
ascended, and rang in his ears. The very birds as 
they flew past him issued some note of gladness, of 
joy, which seemed to say, Simkins be happy too. 

The church too was there with its tall spire, a silent 
monitor, standing in their midst. He could see the 
meadows which stretched away before him as far as 
his eyes could reach, he could see the cattle grazing 
placidly upon their broad bosoms; and in the dim 
distance he could see his home, he could gaze no 
longer. He passed slowly down the hill, through the 
village, and along the road to the little stone bridge. 
Here he paused, his home was now plainly in view. 


54 


@t)e ^Jealous ;fftr£i. JMmfting 


and in the turret he imagined he saw his wife stand- 
ing, evidently watching for him. With a heavy heart, 
he walked up the broad avenue to the house. As he 
approached the door, it opened, his wife stood behind 
it. He passed in and smiled blandly at her, even such 
a smile as a schoolboy wears when he has done 
wrong, and fearing he is to be punished, yet hopes to 
avert it. 

Mrs. Simkins would accept of no smiles, she was 
not to be hoodwinked with smiles. She plied him a 
score of questions, yet gave him no time to reply to any 
of them. “ Where had he been? What done? In 
whose company had he spent his time ?” 

Simkins looking very penitent, confessed to having 
done her a wrong, in absenting himself without per- 
mission, and begged forgiveness, all would not do. 
She likened him to those persons who are evermore 
committing some offense, and being detected, in an 
effort to avoid punishment, are always very penitent 
and begging forgiveness. 

A strong believer in allopathy, she thought the dose 
should even more than meet the requirements of the 
case, and that a patient, acting the name, should take 
his medicine uncomplainingly and like a man. 

This she hoped her husband would do but, 
whether or not, she would not now deviate from the 
course she had intended to pursue, pronouncing him 
incorrigible, she said as temptation could not be re- 
moved from him, he should be removed from tempta- 


®!)c jealous Jlrg. JS>imtun$ 


55 


tion. She proposed by methods of her own to ter- 
minate this sort of thing at once, and for all time. 

This was not all, but only the gist of Mrs. Simkins’s 
remarks, which poor Simkins complaisantly received 
as he pondered the terrible ordeal his wife evidently 
had in store for him. 

The house as I have mentioned, being of great 
length and very spacious, largely exceeded the re- 
quirements of Mrs. Simkins, who, therefore, had fur- 
nished and given attention to those few rooms only 
which she needed for her own and her “Hubby’s” oc- 
cupancy, all others had remained unfurnished, uncared 
for and in condition identically as purchased. It was 
toward the westerly or unoccupied wing that Mrs. 
Simkins now directed her steps and those of her hus- 
band. 

“So Sir,” said Mrs. Simkins continuing her inter- 
rogations, “ 'when charming Polly walking goes’ 
you’ll still persist in walking with her will you.” 

“My dear I never walked with her.” 

“You never will again, if I can prevent it and I 
think I can find or make a way to do that.” 

“I never heard of the lady, my dear.” 

“Oh, perfidious man! where were you if not in her 
company last night, I should like to know.” 

“I can explain that, my dear.” 

“Don’t explain anything and don’t ‘my dear’ me, 
Polly is youf dear, or one of your many dears, as I 
should say.” 

“What Polly is she you speak of?” 


56 


C[ je Jealous J&tmltuus 


“Oh, you have a number of the name, have you? 
What Polly, oh you dissembler, what Polly, but 
Polly Pillowpull, she who sees angels and is carried 
off nightly by them in her dreams. Does that recall 
her to you, does it?” 

“What can I say but that I have no acquaintance 
with her.” 

“Dare you tell me you have no acquaintance 
with her when I have your own writing for it in my 
possession.” 

“My writing?” 

“Your writing Sir, and I will make it an issue be- 
tween us, an issue do you hear, a separation, and then, 
may your Polly's have and keep and provide for you 
as I have done and would still do but for your faith- 
lessness.” 

“You wouldn't do anything to separate us, would 
you, dear, after our two years of unalloyed bliss?” 

“Two years of unalloyed bosh, a separation you 
have long desired and schemed for, that I know for a 
certainty, but I will never give you the satisfaction of 
your desire, I will hold on to you by day and night 
and see that no Polly gets you while I’m alive. There's 
law in England yet, even if at times it is construed 
strangely, and I may yet invoke its aid against your 
creatures, the destroyers of my peace and happiness. 
Can you look me in the face and tell me you know 
nothing of 'The Art of Making Love ?’ ” 

“My dear, how strangely you speak. I would not 
presume to question your superiority in an art of which 


jealous J^tmtuns 


57 


you are and have been a past-Master, to my knowl- 
edge, since first I had the happiness to meet you. All, 
well do I remember, my dear, the art with which you 
wooed, won and made me yours, and all with a ve- 
hemency of love never excelled in the annals of the 
Art." 

“Silence, you speak too glibly and of that which no 
ear cares to hear. 'Tis true I loved you once, and 
well you know where I bestow my love, I love, it 
should be so, but love bestowed upon a man that's cold 
is labor lost, returning lead for gold." 

“Permit me my dear, to accord you that meed of 
praise which is at all times due a loving wife from her 
husband and say you have said well. He is indeed 
cold whom love will not warm and past Doctor 
Cupid's cure. I may say he’s already dead and noth- 
ing lacks but only burial." 

“These words from other lips might something 
mean, from yours, nothing — a tainted love and hus- 
band praise from such, Oh Heaven." 

“What can I say that yet I have not said to prove 
my love most warm, cold, surely, I am not." 

“Cold you are not to those you should be cold, to 
me an icicle, or as the North whose keen and nipping 
breath the tender shoots cut down of liking and of love, 
but this is from my purpose and has nothing whatever 
to do with the matter I have in hand. I spoke of a 
book and its title is The Art of Making Love.' " 

“I never heard of such a book and know nothing of 
its contents." 


58 


dL\)t Jflrg. Simtung 


“Tell that to Mrs. Simple, I have the lines at my 
tongue’s end, all of them and these two may serve to 
freshen your memory: 

And when at night in balmy sleep 
Upon her downy bed she lies ’ 

You never wrote those lines either, did you “My dear.” 

“I never could compose poetry, my Love.” 

“I said, wrote, moreover, I don’t know if it is 
poetry or what it is, but call it poetry if you want to.” 

“I never heard the lines before.” 

“Of course you never did and the more goose I for 
asking, but I can tell you Mr. Simkins, downy bed or 
no downy bed, if charming Polly lies as easy as some 
men do she lies easy enough, I’ll warrant. Come, 
follow me. Husbands who misbehave must punished 
be.” 

“My dear, love makes me as wax in your hands, 
mould me as you will.” 

The way, a devious one, led them up wide and 
creaky staircases, that oft had kissed the dainty feet of 
love-rapturous ladies as trippingly they ascended listen- 
ing the sweet nothings of their would be lords and 
masters, but alas ! all had long since passed away. The 
mirth, the music, the captivating laughter of belles and 
beaux, of bewigged and powdered dames and gentle- 
men, all, all gone, and in their stead a solitude pro- 
found, the greater for the remembrance. 

Musty passages and dark and spacious corridors 
were traversed whose emptiness reverberated their 


59 


lealoms JUra. ^tmluna 


every foot-step and sent a chill through the now more 
than susceptible nature of her easy and acquiescent 
victim. Although not the walking hour, he already 
fancied he saw the long closed doors open stealthily 
and the ghost of the old Marquis and those of his de- 
scendants, costumed as in life, peering angrily at 
them as they passed. 

Coming to the only furnished room in that wing of 
the chateau, a room long unoccupied, she unlocked 
the door, Simkins entered, she again closed and 
locked the door and putting the key in her pocket 
made her way downstairs. 

Simkins was now a close prisoner in the haunted 
chamber. Yes, his wife had turned her home into a 
prison and taken upon herself the duties of warden. 

“A pretty state of affairs,” thought he as he threw 
himself upon a sofa. “Had she selected any other 
room, I would not care, but to remain here over night 
is to have them carry me out a corpse in the morning.” 

Like many persons who pride themselves, and make 
a boast of those qualities, which they least possess, so 
was it with Simkins of his courage, yet in this instance 
he frankly admitted that when it became a question of 
ghosts — or thieves, his courage never failed to leave 
him. He recollected the secret panel, to pass through 
which would be to follow a dark and narrow passage, 
and finally emerge from it, if at all, far out upon the 
grounds. He tried the panel, — without effort it slid 
back and forth. Simkins resolved to enter and follow 
its devious course to the end, then he wondered what 


60 


®f)e Jealous ^Urs. ^tmfetns 


his chance might be of meeting with some obstacle 
therein, of his being unable to proceed, or to retrace 
his steps. “No! No!” thought he, “if I must en- 
counter a spirit let me at least have space to run from 
it though it be no farther than from wall to wall of 
this room.” Sliding the panel back, he went to the 
window and opened it. Looking down he saw a ladder 
resting against the house which seemed to invite his 
escape, and to his great delight, in the distance Fipps 
leading “Bella,” apparently none the worse for her 
little gallop of the day before. 

As he stood there his wife entered, and conducted 
him downstairs to supper. The supper was soon over, 
but the lecture which commenced with it was con- 
tinuous and ended only with their going to bed. 

Rejoicing because he was not compelled to sleep in 
the haunted chamber, being used to lectures, he cared 
little on this occasion for what Mrs. Simkins had to 
say. 

In the morning after breakfast he was again placed 
under lock and key, brought down to dinner and 
again returned to the room till supper time. This sort 
of thing had continued two days, and Simkins’s spirit, 
such as it was, was again aroused to a sense of action. 
He felt as if he would do something, something in 
spite of himself, but what he knew not. 

Again making her appearance this time advancing 
well into the room she incautiously left the key in the 
lock. Perceiving it, he ran out and locked the door. 

Mrs. Simkins, not Mr. Simkins, was now a prisoner. 


Clje STcaloufli Jftrs. ikimtuns 


61 


He listened, presently the knob began to turn. She 
commanded him in her haughtiest tone to unlock the 
door, from commanding she tried persuading, and 
finally coaxing, but Simkins, whose spirit had not yet 
evaporated, was not to be beguiled by the sweet words 
of his better half, and leaving her there went down- 
stairs to supper. 

This extraordinary exemplification of his courage, 
calling, as it did, for more than the usual degree of 
self gratulation, we now find him strutting like a 
turkey cock with the importance of his achievement, 
up and down the dining room, his face all smiles, and 
his hands thrust deep in his breeches pockets. His 
exhilaration, however, was but a momentary one, a 
flicker and then a passing away. Indeed, fear of the 
consequences of his act had already taken its place, 
and he concluded to release his wife, at once. 

Going upstairs and to the wing in which the room 
was situated, he heard her calling at the top of her 
voice to Fipps, but had Fipps been in his last sleep, 
he would have stood as good a chance of Mrs. Sim- 
kins’s voice reaching him, and again undergoing a 
change of mind, the result of fear, he decided to leave 
her there till morning. 

He remembered the brandy his friend Tibbins had 
treated him to; remembered how courageous it made 
him feel, how resolute. Recalled that under its influ- 
ence, he would have challenged to combat even Satan 
himself, in proof of which he referred himself to his 
adverse criticism of Tibbins’ poem, a risk he would not 


62 


Cfce ^Tealattfl JHre. Stmtuna 


have assumed in ordinary conditions. He remembered 
where his wife kept a bottle, to be ready, as she 
said, in case of cramps ; he had cramps, at all events 
his supper had disagreed with him, and only brandy 
could ease him. Going to the pantry he brought out 
the much coveted bottle, tasted it, tasted it again, and 
again, thought it improved with each sip he took of it, 
resting his short legs on the table, he commenced to 
hum, humming gave way to singing, singing to 
boisterous shouting. Simkins was happy. Simkifis 
could whip any woman in the shire. Striking at his 
coat, as it hung on the wall before him, he missed it, 
and saving his knuckles, fell sprawling upon the floor. 
Arising with difficulty, and taking the bottle with him, 
he succeeded in making his way upstairs to the door 
of the room in which his wife remained a prisoner, 
here he executed a series of whoops and war dances 
that would have made glad the heart of an Indian 
chief to witness. 

Mrs. Simkins was bewildered. Had her husband 
gone mad or what ever could have happened to him. 
She asked him, if he was crazy. 

Was he, would she come out and see, he would soon 
show her, he invited her to meet him at the exit from 
the secret passage, he would do her up in no time. 

She begged him to go to bed. 

He would go to bed when he liked. If he liked, he 
would stay there till morning. 


Cfoe Jealous J$trs» J&tmktns 


63 


The bottle was empty. In his antics, he had spilt 
the liquor upon the floor, he would find another bottle ; 
assured her of his intention to return. In his efforts 
to get down he fell half the distance to the foot of the 
stairs where he lay, like a turtle on its back, unable to 
rise and was soon fast asleep. 


CHAPTER VII 


Dreams are but dreams, 

The offspring, as you know, of minds disturbed. 

“ The Disconsolate Monarch.” 

H AVING relinquished all hope of release, Mrs. 

Simkins had no alternative but to make of 
necessity a virtue by preparing for her so- 
journ for the night and this she commenced to do at 
once. Of course she fully expected to be relieved of 
her imprisonment on the following morning. 

The room though long unoccupied, still contained 
the furniture and other belongings of some remote 
owner, evidently a person of wealth and refinement, 
who for reasons now unknown had departed, leaving 
everything in place identically as in use, while succeed- 
ing occupants, and there were many, whether from 
superstitious fear or other cause had scrupulously 
avoided the chamber and preserved its contents 
intact. Oblong in shape, and sombre not to say dis- 
mal in aspect was the chamber. Very large, very high 
and wainscoted in dark oak, half way to the ceiling, 
the ceiling itself being fashioned in large and small 
squares of the same material and wrought in a manner 
highly creditable to the wood carver’s art. Heavy 
draperies, dust covered, and faded with the lapse of 
years, depended from the windows which looked out 
upon two sides and let in just light enough to make 
the gloom within seem more oppressive. The floor of 


C&e Jealous ;fftrs. J&>imluns 


65 


hard and fancy wood was laid in patterns, doubtless 
once well waxed, but now covered, like everything 
else about, with dust. Several Oriental rugs, pro- 
miscuously placed, lay upon and partly concealed the 
floor from view. 

In one comer mounted majestically stood a suit of 
old armor, the hand resting on the hilt of a sword of 
gigantic dimensions. This and a crescent composed of 
ancient swords of various lengths and patterns which 
hung above the spacious fireplace, comprised the only 
reminders of human passion within view. An elabo- 
rately carved bedstead, curtained, whose rich cover- 
ings were carefully spread, and the fireplace which 
was also prepared and ready for use would seem to 
suggest the belief that the owner had intended to again 
occupy the apartment, and that his departure had 
been sudden. Of the correctness of this conjecture we 
shall never learn, but may indeed express our surprise 
that he should have abandoned the pictorial embodi- 
ments of his ancestors those full length portraits in 
oil, in various attitudes and grimy with age, that 
looked down from the walls, and seemed to follow, as 
with living eyes, the movements of those within the 
room. 

Such was the haunted chamber, so called, and as 
such it was dreaded and avoided by all excepting Mrs. 
Simkins herself, who not superstitiously inclined had 
as soon occupy this as any other room in the chateau, 
but she did object to being deprived of her liberty by 
being locked in a room, haunted or otherwise and of 


66 


Clje Jealous JHf** ^tmtitns 


all persons, by that manikin husband of hers. The 
epithet manikin, the strongest in her vocabulary, she 
often opprobriously applied, when out of temper, to 
her husband. 

While Mrs. Simkins was preparing herself for the 
night her eyes rested on the portraits. This time they 
attracted her as never before, partially undressed and 
with no other light than was shed by the candle which 
she carried, she passed from portrait to portrait evinc- 
ing a more or less indifferent interest in each. There 
now remained but one other portrait for her to view ; 
it hung directly opposite the bed on which, unwillingly, 
she was to seek repose. It was that of a lady of thirty, 
of sweet and amiable cast of countenance, sitting and 
costumed in the manner of the French nobility of the 
Sixteenth Century, a smile played about the lips, and 
in the right hand, which rested upon a drapery 
covered table, the artist had pencilled a bouquet of 
flowers. This doubtless had by some been considered 
the most interesting feature of the work, but not so 
thought Mrs. Simkins for whom the portrait bore 
a strange attraction, a fascination that kept her eyes 
riveted and herself standing on a chair, holding the 
candle before the face many minutes at a time. 

The room was chill, and the fireplace as I have 
said had long been prepared and only required the 
application of a match to set it ablaze. She lighted 
the fire at once, and taking one last lingering look at 
the portrait, drew aside the curtain, extinguished the 
candle and retired to rest. 


Seahmg JHra. bunking 


67 


She tried to compose herself to sleep; the face of 
the lady in the portrait with its disturbing influence 
stood ever before her despite her efforts to prevent it, 
and it was not till after the lapse of several hours that 
she passed into a worrisome and wakeful slumber. An 
owl had winged his way and rested on one of the 
limbs of the huge oaks just outside her chamber 
window. Its dismal screeches disturbed Mrs. Sim- 
kins and caused her to murmur as she tossed, more 
and more uneasily in her restlessness. 

The night too had grown unruly, fitful and boister- 
ous winds had risen that seemed to vent their fury 
around the wing of the chateau where she lay. The 
weather warped windows rattled like one’s teeth with 
the ague, while moans as of those in dire distress, that 
seemed to have their origin in the chimney issued 
from the fireplace, and resounded from every comer 
in the chamber. 

There yet remained of the now smouldering fire a 
few expiring embers, which from time to time lit up 
and sent a faint glimmer of light around the room. 
Mrs. Simkins dreamed she looked indifferently into 
the gloom of her chamber. She looked again and again 
with ever increasing interest, and finally sat bolt up- 
right in bed. 

Not a believer in ghosts was Mrs. Simkins, but 
could she question her own eyes ? Standing before the 
fireplace, and looking down into it, was the form 
of a woman in a white cap and gown. As Mrs. 
Simkins started the apparition turned toward her dis- 


68 


€I)c 3ealott0 Jflrs. ^tmfetng 


closing a countenance at once ghostly and rueful. The 
face was unmistakably that of the lady in the por- 
trait but, Oh so changed. Mrs. Simkins was in a 
tremor. To escape from the room was impossible for 
the door, as she well knew was locked on the out- 
side, and whether or not, the spirit stood between her 
and it and barred all passage in that direction. 
“Speak, speak, in Heaven’s name, speak” moaned Mrs. 
Simkins in a tremulous and scarcely audible tone. 

As if taking courage from these words the spectre 
advanced well toward the bed, an act which sent the 
now thoroughly appalled woman, still dreaming, 
crouching to its farthest comer. Having assured her 
that it had neither the power nor the disposition to 
harm, the unwelcome visitor commenced to talk in 
deep and gutteral tones. 

It had a tale to unfold and a tongue to unfold it with, 
in fact, a veritable talking ghost, and thus it delivered 
itself. 

“Two hundred years have past 
Since first I wed, and lived a happy life 
In this our home. 

Even as my life was he, My Lord, to me, 

And even as he to me, was I to him. 

In him affection grew, and blossomed forth 
Each day, its loveliest flower. 

Ten years together thus in happy state, 

Along life’s eventful path we journeyed on, 

And still had thus our happy state pursued 


Cfce 2feaUmfi Jftts. SimtUM 


69 


Till our last step was done, 

Had not that bane, that cankering demon come 
And taken possession of me, 

Beware! Beware of jealousy! 

Let it not enter twixt thy peace and thee — 
Bending an ear of Charity, 

My husband stood, one day within the garden, 

His supplicant a woman. Them I saw 
And in a jealous fury rushed upon them. 

’Twas nothing. ’Twas enough. 

The wedge of jealousy had entered in 

And made a breach between my love and me 

Forever. 

With rancorous hate, thenceforth, 

My bosom burned. His every innocent act 
But gave the proof to that which went before. 

Let me take pause, 

And hide for very shame 
My guilty face. — 

Occasion, which to evil doers comes, 

Came now to me. 

With grief of my estrangement soon he lay, 

111 of a fever. O, horrible to speak! 

The hand that should have nursed him 
Was the hand which in my jealous frenzy 
Poison poured : Freed his pure soul 
And gave it flight to heaven.” 

“Heaven preserve me/’ ejaculated Mrs. Simkins in 
subdued and affrighted tones. 


70 


&be j»e along Simtun* 


“Fear not, 

I have no power upon you 

For evil or for good. ’Tis mine alone 

The murderous deed to name, 

And thine to profit by it.” 

“I will, I will.” 

“But list, 

The messenger of morn, Sir Chanticleer 
Does, with his clarion notes, 

The dawn awake 
And night, black and repellent 
Even as my deed, his face to hide 
Slinks stealthily away. 

O torture terrible ! 

Now must I hence to regions sulphurous, 
There with the damned to stay.” 

“Mercy, mercy.” 

“Mercy is hers, who mercy shall deserve — 
But let me not digress. Remorse was mine 
Perfidious ! Murderous wretch ! 

Thenceforth my guilty soul could conjure up 
No thought save this, 

A mad house next received me, 

There I spent what more remained of life 
And dead, was doomed 
Nightly, the confines of this room to walk 
Wherein the deed was done. 

Beware, beware of jealousy!” 


C&e batons Jilts. ^tmtuns 


71 


Having delivered its adjuration, the ghost, without 
the courtesy of an “Adieu” or the expression of a de- 
sire to be “Remembered” vanished. 

Mrs. Simkins awoke and found herself buried, head 
and foot, beneath the bed clothes. 

Beads of perspiration covered her brow, she would 
have given years of her previous existence to get out 
of the room. With great caution she peeped out from 
under the covers ; she could see nothing. 

To her mind this was no idle meaningless dream, 
the outcome of circumstances in which she found her- 
self, but a reality, a reality as palpable as the bed on 
which she then lay, and of this apprehension she was 
never able conscientiously to relieve herself. 

The approach of dawn reassured her, and averting 
her eyes from the portrait of the lady of whom she 
dreamt, she left her bed and sat by the window to 
await the time when the door should be opened to 
release her from all further confinement in the haunted 
chamber. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


That it hath like a far-stretched bladder burst, 
And overwhelmed me. 


I have fed my vanity so far, 


“The Disconsolate Monarch." 


FTER Simkins had departed for home, Tib- 



bins commenced at once the writing of his 


poem, the poem, which was to accomplish 
so much for man’s good by pointing out the dangers 
that lie in matrimonial alliances. The poem, which 
was to depict married life in so hideous a form that 
bachelordom would seem as Heaven in comparison 
with it. 

“If this my poem,” thought he, “should be the means 
of saving man from a wife’s thraldom the name of 
Tibbins will be blest. It will descend not only as a 
poet, but as that of man’s greatest benefactor to the 
end of time. It is a theme that calls for the highest 
flights of my genius, and it shall have them.” 

He sat down and endeavored to write, Genius had 
taken her highest flight and was still on the wing, he 
tried to recall her. She would not respond. “A giddy 
jade this genius,” thought he, “as fickle as a woman, 
but she will come anon,” he had heard that many great 
authors had got their ideas while walking the floor, 
why should not he do the same. Genius still remained 
a truant. Others had conceived their most sublime 
thoughts while lying in bed, and thus was born to this 
world Tibbins’ masterpiece. 


Ci)e Seatons J&>tmktn0 


73 


The approach of dawn found him still busy seeking 
a title, “A title,” thought he, “is to a poem, what a 
head is to a man, and it should be a good one, I will 
call the poem, ‘Every man his own master or the 
blessedness of Single Life. A poetic study for man by 
Thomas Tibbins, Poet,” and placing the MSS. un- 
der the pillow he sought a few hours of much needed 
repose. 

The lapse of a few days only found the “poem” in 
print, and him and a hired man busily engaged in dis- 
tributing copies thereof among the poorer folk resi- 
dent in the neighborhood. On the third night follow- 
ing the distribution, he sat in his room alone. A copy 
of his composition lay on the table before him, he was 
in ecstasies. “Was it not exquisite?” 

“The women themselves, although it opposed them, 
could not but admire the genius which each line re- 
flected.” Thus musing, a rumble as of distant thunder 
was heard. 

Tibbins heard it. He wondered what it all meant, 
he opened the window and listened. The noise con- 
tinued. It knew no cessation, no pause. “Brawlers” 
thought he, “on their way home from the village,” 
he closed the window, but the noise becoming louder 
he reopened it, and again listened. The name “Tib- 
bins” was cried aloud by many voices. 

“Could it be possible that genius was so soon to be 
recognized. Was he at last to receive his reward, the 
recognition, the plaudits of his fellowman, for the 
service he had done him? Yes, he was sure he was.” 


74 


C&c 3Jealottfi JMmlttnfli 


Mrs. Worthington, Fanny, and Betty followed by 
the little terrier now came running frightened into 
the room, Mrs. Worthington was certain a riot had 
broken out, and that the rioters were about to ransack 
the premises, what should she do? 

Fanny and Betty, in one voice, begged the poet to 
tell them what they should do. Even the little terrier, 
as he barked and jumped around him, seemed to ap- 
preciate the situation, and say “Mr. Tibbins what shall 
we do ?” 

“Fear not, ladies,” said he, assuming his most dig- 
nified position, “Fear not for yourselves, nor for your 
chattels, Tibbins they seek, Tibbins the poet, Tibbins 
the philanthropist. You shall presently witness the 
honors which they will bestow upon me. You shall 
hear me speak my acknowledgements. You shall 
learn for the first time how highly honored you have 
been by my presence among you.” 

Betty ran to the window, and in the pale light of the 
new moon could discern large bodies of people, 
mostly women, approaching. Indeed, many of them 
had already surrounded the house. They were hoot- 
ing, and yelling, and making all sorts of hideous 
noises. 

Many carried horns which they blew incessantly. 
Some had tin pans which they beat upon with sticks, 
hand bells and gongs added their quota to the din, 
which was now almost deafening. 

Tibbins approached the window, opening it, he 
stepped out upon the balcony, he stood before them 


Clje Stotts g'tmtuns 


75 


bowing his thanks, said he “This demonstration over- 
whelms me,” but his voice was swallowed up in the 
whirlwind of deafening shouts, and no one heard it. 

“Tibbins, Tibbins, we want Tibbins,” cried a num- 
ber of voices simultaneously. 

“I am he, I, only I, am Tibbins.” 

A shower of missiles of every description greeted 
his announcement and discovering for the first time 
the relations between them he lost no time in getting 
back into the room. 

Another volley followed his exit from the balcony 
which breaking several windows, drove Mrs. Worth- 
ington, Fanny, and Betty upstairs for safety. 

“This is plainly an attempt upon my life, and to re- 
main here longer would be to have all avenues of es- 
cape cut off.” 

Going to his pantry he seized several rolls of MSS., 
with which he hastily made his way downstairs, and 
opened the rear entrance, but oh horror!, there, as in 
front, a large crowd of angry men and women met 
his gaze and caused him suddenly to withdraw and 
close and bolt the door. 

What should he do? What could he do? If he 
remained, the chances of the house being burned over 
his head were almost certain. If he rushed suddenly 
forth he might escape with only a few blows and even 
be able to inflict a few blows in return. 

He was not long in deciding. Opening the door 
suddenly he was at once among them, but to get out 
from among them, was an altogether different matter, 


76 


QLfyt Jealous JHrs. J&tmktns 


he found himself wedged in so tightly that progress 
was almost impossible. 

He struggled violently, using his fists, as he best 
could in an effort to strike any man or woman within 
his reach. 

His hat was knocked from his head, his collar, 
luckily had parted, and thus saved him from being 
strangled, his coat had been ripped up the back as far 
as the collar, and the front of his shirt — his bosom — 
was snatched by some irate female who would ever 
afterwards hold it as a trophy against him. 

As yet owing to the compactness of the crowd, 
there had been received very slight bodily injury on 
either side. Tibbins could not command the full and 
free use of his arms, and his opponents luckily for him 
were arm-bound to the same extent, but the swaying 
backward and forward of the struggling mass of 
which he was the centre, was continuous, and an ad- 
junct only to the ever increasing cries for his life, 
which met his ears and caused him to think his escape, 
if accomplished, would be little short of miraculous. 

Wedging his way at last to the edge of the crowd, 
escape seemed fairly in view, when suddenly he re- 
ceived a well directed and stinging blow on the nose 
from the fist of a brawny female, which dazed him 
for the moment and caused the scarlet to start in no 
uncertain way and fall upon his now sadly disarranged 
apparel. 

Shout after shout mingled with cries full of peril 
for the victim followed this bit of luck of the enemy, 


5EI)e Seatons jfflrs. £>imktna 


77 


but Tibbins all unheedful of it, and having recovered 
his vigor, struck out, if anything more determined and 
forcibly than ever and finally succeeded in getting out 
of their clutches, receiving as a parting memento, a 
stone, which struck him on the broad of his back and 
accelerated his movements without hurting him seri- 
oulsy, and soon placed him beyond their reach. 

Whatever Tibbins’ antipathy of woman may have 
been, it may be asserted without fear of contradiction 
that he was now, and likely ever would remain a 
woman hater of the pronounced type, in any case he 
already had resolved that write against womankind 
as he might he would do so for his own pleasure 
alone, and not for the disenthralment of his own sex, 
whose ingratitude had brought him to the condition in 
which he now found himself. The word “philanthro- 
pist,” henceforward, would have no place in his 
vocabulary. 

He congratulated himself upon his escape, and un- 
mindful of the injury to his nasal organ, and of his 
woe begone appearance his next thought was of his 
MSS., and feeling the legs of his breeches he found 
them still there, where he had thrust them. Tibbins 
was happy, he now decided not to defer his promised 
visit to his friend Simkins but go at once. Tibbins 
thought every man should keep his promise. 

With the escape of the poet, the turbulence around 
the house of his landlady soon ceased. True, small 
bodies of women set out in hope of again finding him, 
but as the moon had gone down, and he had taken to 


78 




the woods, they soon saw the folly of any further 
search. Others betook themselves at once to home. 

Mrs. Worthington, Fanny and Betty, now issued 
from their retreat in the garret, and after examining 
the damage done to the windows, proceeded cautiously 
downstairs in search of their friend. The rear door 
being open assured them he was not in the house, but 
whether he had gone voluntarily or been dragged out 
was a solution they could not readily arrive at. 

Betty was certain they had seen the last of the poet 
unless indeed his mangled form should be revealed to 
them lying about the grounds in the gray mist of 
early morn, and apprehending a renewal of the attack, 
all three barricaded themselves in one room for the 
night. 

At sunrise, after locking up the house, they hired a 
conveyance to take them to the house of a friend, in- 
tending if possible, to remain there until time should 
have smoothed away the bellicose feeling at that time 
prevailing. 


CHAPTER IX 


Our ailments let run 

Grow worse and worse. Do not the doctor shun. 

“The Disconsolate Monarch.” 

E ARLY on the following morning, Fipps, while 
pursuing his accustomed duties stumbled 
across Simkins, who still retained the recum- 
bent position in which we last left him, and assisted 
him to rise. He complained of feeling queer in the 
head, and going into the sitting room prepared to re- 
new his slumbers upon the sofa, having first handed to 
Fipps the key of the haunted chamber, the door of 
which, he directed him to open. 

Fipps did as he had been instructed, and putting his 
head cautiously into the room was surprised to see 
Mrs. Simkins sitting by the window. She made no 
mention of her unpleasant experience, but complained 
of feeling ill; inquired as to her husband’s where- 
abouts, and voiced her disapproval of his rude be- 
havior in turning the key against her, “his poor weak 
wife” as she expressed it. 

Resolving never again to enter, or allow others to 
enter the room, she handed Fipps the key and in- 
structed him to bury it and never divulge even to her- 
self the place of its concealment. This duty Fipps 
faithfully performed and it may be stated on Mrs. 
Simkins’ part that she willingly held to her determina- 
tion, the haunted chamber thenceforth remaining a 


80 


C&e 3eaIott$ ;prg. ^tmktnfl! 


sealed and inaccessible apartment. She spoke of his 
subsequent actions, and asked what instrument could 
possibly have occasioned the noise she heard in the 
corridor. Fipps who could not surmise what his mis- 
tress alluded to, replied the only thing he had seen 
was a large empty bottle which lay just outside the 
door of the chamber. She declared that under no cir- 
cumstances would she ever again allow a drop of 
liquor to enter her premises. At her bidding, Fipps, 
assisted her to her own room where she ordered him 
to prepare, and bring her a cup of chocolate, and to 
ask that husband of hers if he had in his nature as 
much charity as would prompt him to go and fetch a 
doctor. The message delivered, Simkins said, “Cer- 
tainly, he would go and bring a doctor, two, if she 
said so/’ the expense being her own, he cared not how 
many. 

He started at once, and had proceeded about a mile 
on his way to the village, when to his surprise, he met 
Tibbins journeying toward Simkins’ house. Having 
purchased of a farmer on his way thither a plain but 
comfortable coat, and having otherwise repaired his 
disarranged garments, his appearance now presented 
no indication of the struggle he had passed through 
the night before. 

Simkins more than glad to see him, entered at once 
into a recital of his experience since his return home ; 
his imprisonment and how he had finally turned the 
tables upon his wife by locking her in the haunted 
chamber. Tibbins had his own bitter experience to 


QLl)t JJealottg Jftrs. Simfein* 


81 


relate, and then slapping Simkins on the back assured 
him he had at last entered upon a proper course of 
treatment toward his wife, and advised him not to 
deviate from it, he was certain Mrs. Simkins would 
ultimately be made sick. 

Simkins informed him his wife was already sick 
and that he was even then on his way to get a doctor. 
Adding that he considered her condition due entirely 
to fright, the result of her confinement in the haunted 
chamber. 

“ Tis no more, I assure you. I will be her doctor, 
let it be the means of my introduction into the house.” 

Simkins readily assented, and it was agreed between 
them that the poet should be known as Dr. Righter, 
and so called during his stay there. 

As his wife had never seen Tibbins in person this 
deception was a matter not difficult of accomplish- 
ment. 

Arriving at the house he was ushered into the sick 
lady's chamber at once and informed her he had 
hastened thither with his best speed to relieve her. 

Mrs. Simkins smiled pensively “she was so glad,” 
advancing to the bedside, he took her hand in his and 
his watch from his pocket at the same time. A brief 
silence ensued. He varied the monotony of the affair 
by gazing first at the watch, then at his patient, and 
afterwards at the ceiling. 

Mrs. Simkins eyed him askance with evident inter- 
est. 

He shook his head ominously, replaced the watch in 


82 


C&e 3 Mou 0 Simfetn* 


his pocket, and after examining her tongue, whose 
abnormal length he mentally commented on, laid his 
hand gently on her brow and inquired if her head felt 
hot, she replied, No. 

Expressing much surprise, he asked if her feet 
felt cold? 

“She had sometimes been troubled with cold feet.” 

“Creepy feeling up and down the spine?” 

At this question the patient involuntarily assumed a 
movement indicating a desire to hastily leave her bed, 
which Tibbins preventing, he answered his own ques- 
tion by saying the disease had not as yet reached that 
stage in its progress, “and now Madam to fully com- 
plete my diagnosis it will be necessary to ask you one 
more question only ‘Do you feel any lack of desire to 
rise V ” 

Mrs. Simkins acknowledged that she felt an inclina- 
tion for rest. Assuming to have learned something of 
vital importance in the latter information, he uttered 
a long, deep and significant “So, so” shook his head 
portentously, pressed his finger to his pursed lips, cast 
his eyes again to the ceiling, and seemed lost in utter 
abstraction. After the lapse of a few moments he 
walked slowly to the window, where he stood toy- 
ing with his fob chain and looking vacantly on the 
landscape before him. Having heard of the eccentri- 
cities of many doctors eminent in their profession, she 
now began to entertain a very high opinion of Tibbins’ 
ability. Returning, he placed a chair close beside the 
bed, and sitting, again took her hand and inquired as 


C&e 3Tealouj5 JHr0. f£>ttnktnfl 


83 


to the condition of her stomach, and what she had 
lately eaten that might in some degree have added to 
the severity of her ailment. She replied, that so far 
as her stomach was concerned, she had never known, 
from any trouble it had ever occasioned her, that she 
had one, and after enumerating a few simple articles 
of diet of which she had recently partaken, asked if 
they were not of a kind calculated to do her good. 

“It is not so much what one eats, as what one 
doesn’t eat, that does one most good.” 

“I don’t quite understand you doctor.” 

“I say nature gave to every man a good stomach, 
one that would last him as long as he had any use 
for it, if he would only allow it to remain so.” 

Mrs. Simkins’ eyes were fixed intently on Tibbins, 
and in them one could read a confession of faith in her 
medical adviser, which by some is accounted one half 
the cure. 

He now assured her with his soberest face that she 
would probably be unable to leave her bed for at least 
a week. 

Mrs. Simkins closed her eyes. 

“Your condition, madam, is a nervous one, and 
would seem to have been produced by much mental 
anxiety.” 

She looked despairingly at him, but remained silent. 

“It is not necessarily a dangerous condition, but one 
that will reflect great credit on the practitioner who 
succeeds in preventing it from becoming so.” “As 
doctor, it is my duty to make this known to you, that 


84 


@1 )t jealous bunking 


you may avoid all cause of excitement, indeed, excite- 
ment at this time would prove highly detrimental to 
you. It might even remove you from all further par- 
ticipation in the affairs of this life.” 

Mrs. Simians’ feelings were expressed in motion, 
she moved uneasily in the bed. 

“I had a case not a great while ago, a Mrs. Waddle 
of our village, perhaps you know the lady.” 

Mrs. Simkins said she had never heard of Mrs. 
Waddle before. 

“A handsome woman, and very rich, but what are 
riches without health to enjoy them?” 

“As nothing, nothing,” groaned Mrs. Simkins. 

“Well, she fell into a nervous condition, I was sent 
for, but unavailingly, she failed to respond to the treat- 
ment I gave her.” 

“Couldn’t you cure her, doctor?” asked Mrs. Sim- 
kins anxiously. 

“All was done that could be done, doctors Pillem 
and Killem were called in consultation, after which 
her case became at once more serious, I might say, 
entirely hopeless.” 

“She died then poor lady?” 

“Oh no, she lives, but her mind is entirely gone, she 
is now in a lunatic asylum.” 

“What was her ailment, doctor?” 

“Mental anxiety, nervous depression, brain affected, 
natural sequence, cause jealousy, jealous of her hus- 
band, led her husband a dreadful life.” 


&{)* SJealottfi JHw. Jlumiunfl; 


85 


Mrs. Simkins muttered to herself “jealousy, jealous 
of her husband.” 

“Mr. Waddle is very happy now though,” chimed in 
Tibbins with evident satisfaction. 

Mrs. Simkins eyed him sharply, “I can’t see for the 
life of me how Mr. Waddle could be happy now, his 
poor wife being in a lunatic asylum.” 

“Why don’t you see, madam. Mr. Waddle is now 
looking for another wife,” and he chuckled and rubbed 
his hands in evidence of the joy it gave him to know 
how decided was the advantage which the fictitious 
Mr. Waddle had at last gained over his jealous better 
half. 

“Oh! the rascal,” ejaculated Mrs. Simkins fairly 
starting up in bed. 

“My dear, dear, madam, let me again caution you 
not to allow yourself to become excited. Think of the 
interests at stake. Think of your poor husband. 
Think of him, madam, and of his being left alone in 
the world, with no one to care for him, or to watch 
after him.” 

“Did you say to watch him, doctor?” 

“To watch after his interests, madam, for who can 
look after a husband’s interests so well, half so well, 
as can a loving wife.” 

“A loving wife, doctor?” 

“His wife, his own wife, madam.” 

Mrs .Simkins promised never to allow her feelings 
to overcome her judgment again. 

“Referring to the Waddle case, now you couldn’t 


86 


Cfce STealottg J&>tmktnfi; 


reasonably expect Mr. Waddle to live with a crazy 
woman.” 

“Why had he made her crazy ? He had done so for 
obvious reasons. He had done so to get rid of her.” 

Tibbins again warned her not to get excited. Said 
he, “I know Mr. Waddle well, have known him a long 
time. Know him to be a gentleman.” 

“A gentleman would never think of marrying again 
while his poor wife lived, even though she was in a 
lunatic asylum.” 

“There is law for it.” 

“I have my doubts as to that, but no doubt as to 
Mr. Waddle not being a gentleman.” 

She had now waxed warm, in spite of the “doctor’s” 
warning against it, and was in a frame of mind to 
enter into a discussion with all her well-known ardor, 
not to say fury, but Tibbins again warned her of the 
danger she was incurring and she subsided. 

He intimated that the nature of her complaint made 
her sensitive, he would have said contradictory, but 
refrained for fear of offending her. Uttering a quiet 
and assenting “Perhaps so” she gave herself up to 
thought. Tibbins again took a seat by the window. 
A few minutes only had passed when she called to him 
saying she had something of importance to communi- 
cate. He was all attention and informed her that any 
communication entrusted to him would ever remain 
a secret. His anxiety to be informed made her dis- 
trustful, and she hesitated. 

“Doctor,” she said finally, “I have pondered this 


GTIje Jealous J&imfems 


87 


matter, and in consideration of the present critical con- 
dition of my health, having the fate of the unfortunate 
Mrs. Waddle before my eyes, must make known to 
you that the relations between myself (Mrs. Simkins 
always gave herself precedence in speaking) and Mr. 
Simkins have not been of so pleasant a character as 
might be expected to exist between wife and hus- 
band” 

“Indeed” said Tibbins, affecting great surprise and 
drawing his chair closer to the bedside, “and may I 
ask how long you have enjoyed the marriage state?” 

“I have never enjoyed it at all.” 

“I mean, madam what length of time have you been 
married? How long is it since the knot was tied?” 

“Two years, doctor.” 

“Why, the honeymoon should be scarcely over by 
this time, and pray, what is the nature of the trouble 
between you? Does he abuse you?” 

“Most shamefully. You will scarcely believe it. He 
has given me great cause for jealousy.” 

“No.” 

“ Tis true, doctor.” 

“And may I be permitted to ask you to name an in- 
stance in which your husband has given you such 
cause? Jealousy you know often originates from no 
cause.” 

Mrs. Simkins thought a woman would be very fool- 
ish to be jealous without cause, and to this opinion 
Tibbins readily assented. Expressing a more than 
customary professional desire to cure her, he said he 


88 


C&e Jftrs. Ifcimktna 


would even neglect, or transfer to the care of his 
student, his other patients and sojourn in her house to 
keep watch over her symptoms. She was truly thank- 
ful and promised to pay him handsomely both for his 
time and services. 

To a tumbler filled with water he added a little 
granulated sugar out of a vial which Simkins had pro- 
vided him with, and placing it beside the bed directed 
her to take two teaspoonfuls every hour, and so left 
her. 


CHAPTER X 


How easy ’t is to lie and wear the mask 
Of sober honesty; 

Let no man hence be trusted. 


“The Disconsolate Monarch.” 


EAVING his fair patient to herself and her 



sugar and water, Tibbins started on his way 


downstairs. On the landing He met Simkins, 
his face radiant with smiles, and hopeful of anticipa- 
tions. Tibbins laughingly told him that “in all his 
professional career he never before had had so healthy 
a patient, but have no fear,” added he, “for if medical 
science means anything rest assured, the old vixen 
shall not leave her chamber for at least a week.” 

Simkins begged him to spare no effort to keep her 
there. 

As they entered the dining room, Fipps came in 
with the announcement that three women who had just 
come up the avenue in a wagon were outside seeking 
to be admitted. 

“Women,” said Simkins, thoroughly taken aback. 

“Women,” repeated Tibbins, equally surprised. 

“Women,” reiterated Fipps with emphasis as though 
he meant them to understand that he knew them to be 
women. 

In obedience to instructions, Fipps went to ascertain 
their object in calling. 

Simkins thought they had mistaken the house, or 


90 


QLht Jealotts f&xa. J&>tmiunfli 


called to inquire the location of some family residing 
in the neighborhood. 

Fipps soon returned with the information that they 
had come on a visit to Mr. Simkins. 

“To visit me,” “me,” “no,” “it can’t be.” “If my 
wife should learn of it I would be forced to flee the 
premises. Tell them I am not at home, tell them 
anything but don’t admit them.” 

Fipps returned, and almost immediately Mrs. 
Worthington, Fanny and Betty, not forgetting the lit- 
tle terrier, all came hurriedly into the room. 

Tibbins, meanwhile had gone into an adjoining 
room, leaving his friend alone to receive them. 

As they entered, Simkins could not conceal his sur- 
prise and chagrin. 

Mrs. Worthington extended her hand, saying “We 
have such news to tell you Mr. Simkins.” 

“What’s the matter,” inquired he curtly. 

“We have spent such a dreadful night.” 

“Very dreadful,” added Fanny. 

“Worse than dreadful,” rejoined Betty. 

“We have been mobbed, your friend Tibbins is 
missing.” 

“Perhaps murdered,” added Fanny. 

“We shall never hear him recite his poems any 
more,” sighed Betty. 

“Our house ere this may have been burned to the 
ground,” said Mrs. Worthington, and continuing she 
narrated in detail, assisted by Fanny and Betty; the 
demonstration of the previous evening, also making 


fpe ^calotte; JHre. J&imtunfif 


91 


known that she had first visited her friend Mrs. Per- 
kins — with whom she had expected to spend a few 
days — only to find her house, one of limited capacity, 
overflowing with company, and then alluding to the 
ample accommodations which Simkins’ castle, as she 
called it, afforded, she began to divest herself of her 
shawl and bonnet, which Fanny, observing, did like- 
wise. Simkins offering no reply wondered what the 
end would be. 

The little terrier perfectly at home, was lying upon 
the sofa. 

Betty, womanlike, was committing to memory all 
the household goods, ornaments, etc., contained in the 
room, not forgetting to note the age and condition of 
each and every article in it. 

“In plain truth, not knowing where to go for safety, 
we came here Mr. Simkins,” said Mrs. Worthington, 
seating herself with much composure in Mrs. Simkins’ 
rocking chair, “knowing how kind — ” 

“My wife—” 

“Dear, kind lady, of course when she learns of the 
dreadful affair how sad she will feel.” 

“I know she will,” spoke up Fanny. 

“Of course she will,” chimed in Betty. 

“Ladies, I sympathize with you, I realize how dread- 
ful must have been the occasion that has driven you 
from so comfortable a home. It would give me 
pleasure to have you remain indefinitely but the fact is 
I have a wife ” here he paused and looked con- 

fused. 


92 


Jealotta i£>tmtuns 


“Of course you have a wife,” remarked Mrs. 
Worthington with some surprise, “I have heard her 
spoken of often, and it would give me much pleasure 
to make her acquaintance.” 

“You have come at a very inauspicious time,” said 
Simkins, not deigning to notice the latter remark, “for 
to speak truth my wife is confined to her bed with ill- 
ness, and will be unable to receive you.” 

They were all “so sorry” to learn that the lady was 
ill. Mrs. Worthington offered her services in Mrs. 
Simkins’ behalf and rising was about to proceed to the 
kitchen at once to prepare a broth which she of all 
women knew best how to make. 

“My wife,” said Simkins, “is a woman of very 
peculiar temperament, and decidedly averse to the 
presence of ladies about the premises.” 

“How very singular,” uttered Mrs. Worthington. 

“How very singular,” repeated Fanny. 

“Oh! my, isn’t she odd,” rejoined Betty. 

At this moment Tibbins made his appearance, ob- 
serving him, Mrs. Worthington gave vent to her 
feelings in a loud cry, and involuntarily embraced him, 
Betty and Fanny did likewise, and for some minutes 
a shower of congratulations fell thick and fast upon 
him. 

He assured them not only of his own safety but of 
the safety of his manuscripts as well. 

Betty, with hopes of future promises of shilling 
payments, said she would so like to hear him recite 
his poems once more. 


S'calousi &tmktnfi! 


93 


She was assured that her wish would be gratified, 
“but first,” said Tibbins, “let us make some arrange- 
ment whereby you may all be allowed to remain.” 

He then explained to them the position in which 
Simkins and himself stood in regard to his own pres- 
ence there, Mrs. Simkins would need the services of a 
nurse, in which capacity he thought Mrs. Worthington 
might act, but such was his patient’s jealousy that she 
could only do so, however, by assuming to be his wife, 
and Fanny his daughter. 

Mrs. Worthington unwillingly assented, Fanny was 
more than willing, and Betty would do anything, no 
matter what, to be allowed to remain. 

Tibbins went upstairs to Mrs. Simkins’ room at 
once and returning reported the matter as definitely 
and affirmatively settled. Flis patient more than 
pleased at the interest he was manifesting in her case 
had thanked him and requested that his wife be sent 
for with all convenient haste. 

“Remember, madam,” said Tibbins, “you are my 
wife, I am Dr. Righter. You are Mrs. Dr. Righter, 
and for the sake of harmony and the well being of our 
friend Mr. Simkins here, see that you carry out your 
part well.” 

“I have never been guilty of so great a deception in 
my life before,” replied Mrs. Worthington, “but hav- 
ing entered into it, I will do my best not only for your 
friend’s sake but for your sake as well,” and she patted 
him on the cheek as she would say “You rogue, you 


94 


3Teal0tt0 f&xti. £>tmktns 


see I am not without some slight feeling of regard 
for you after all.” 

Sufficient time having elapsed to allow of Mrs. 
Worthington being sent for, she was ushered into the 
sick chamber and at once ingratiated herself in Mrs. 
Simkins’s good opinion. Simkins and Tibbins mean- 
while had gone to the Library where they sat con- 
versing upon that all absorbing topic, Mrs. Simkins’s 
jealousy. Fanny suffering the fatigue and annoy- 
ance of the previous evening reclined on the sofa. 
Betty having been told to prepare some mutton broth 
for the patient had gone to the kitchen in obedience 
to Mrs. Worthington’s instructions. 

Fipps, who had long held sway in that part of the 
household and looked upon it as an apartment belong- 
ing absolutely to himself, now considered Betty’s 
presence there an intrusion, and made plain to tell 
her so. 

Betty retorted that so long as she remained in the 
house, which she hoped would be a long time, she in- 
tended to be mistress of that department, words fol- 
lowed words in rapid succession, and ended by Betty 
striking Fipps on the head with a toasting fork which 
sent him shouting from the room. Unwilling to let 
him off thus easily she followed, striking at him as 
she did so, they had passed through the dining room, 
and out into the hall up the stairs of which Fipps 
bounded as though Satan himself were after him. 

His shouts brought the entire household out to 


C&e 3eaUms ;pt0. £>tmktn« 


95 


learn the cause. The question of priority in the 
kitchen having been decided in Betty’s favor she at 
once returned there, while Fipps was compelled to 
undergo a severe scolding from Mrs. Worthington 
into whose presence Mr. Simkins had caused him to 
be called. 


CHAPTER XI 


But we will take it as a strangeness in her, 
A strangeness not unnatural to woman, 
And so dismiss it. 


“The Disconsolate Monarch.” 


HREE days and nights had passed since Tib- 



bins assumed the function of doctor, and 


as yet his patient had not left her room. 


True, in his absence she had frequently left her bed 
and sat by the window to while away the tedium of 
her confinement, only to return to it suddenly on the 
hearing of any noise suggestive of Tibbins’s ap- 
proach. 

She felt better, better, indeed, than she had felt 
for some time and she longed for the hour that would 
enable her to resume her houshold duties. 

Tibbins had told her he looked upon her sudden 
improvement as an unfavorable indication and this 
alone prevented her from resuming her domestic af- 
fairs at once. 

Unable to restrain the poetic feeling which had 
again seized upon him, he would have given anything 
if Mrs. Simkins — much as he detested her — had con- 
sented to listen to a recital of at least a portion of 
his effusions. 

“Madam,” said he, “did it ever occur to you that 
the muse in her goodness had bestowed upon me 
that greatest of all gifts, the gift of poetry?” 


®!)e ^Jealous ffiw* ^imfuna 


97 


Mrs. Simkins eyed him keenly, but offered no re- 
ply. 

“Yes Madam, such is the case and I trust I may be 
pardoned any little feeling of pride which the posses- 
sion of so great a gift engenders within me.” 

“I have written much in my time, very much, 
among others a lengthy poem on the subject of 
‘jealousy/ perhaps you would like to hear me recite a 
few stanzas from memory?” 

Mrs. Simkins excused herself on the score of weari- 
ness. 

“Poetry acts as a wonderful charm in soothing any 
irritation of the nervous system, and as a cure for 
weariness its effects are simply marvelous.” 

Mrs. Simkins was still indisposed to listen. 

“Of course, it is not given to all persons to appre- 
ciate poetry, more’s the pity, and to recite to dull ears 
is like pouring water in a sieve. You have nothing 
for your pains, or pleasure, as I should say, for of 
course it is a pleasure, although only the poet him- 
self derives it.” At this moment, acting somewhat 
strangely, he requested Mrs. Simkins to remain per- 
fectly quiet, placed his finger to his forehead, and 
himself in an attitude of deep thought, after a few 
moments reflection, he said: 

Good books are friends, of this, if any doubt, 

No doubt there is, that man is but a lout. 

And taking a memorandum book from his pocket 


98 


TOe Jealous Jftva* JHmfctna 


he entered the lines therein, “and now may I ask 
who is your favorite author?” 

“I have none,” quickly responded Mrs. Simkins, 
“all authors are as one to me. I read none. Care for 
none ! What care I for their ideas, my own notion of 
things is quite sufficient for me.” 

“But you certainly have preferences, have you 
not ?” 

“As to authors?” 

“As to authors, madam, that is, if you read at all, 
you would much prefer, we will say, that greatest of 
all authors to all others?” 

“And who is he?” 

“Why of course, Shakespeare.” 

“I read Shakespeare, doctor? Not I indeed. I 
know him too well and his whole history. Do you 
think me so wasteful of time, not to say wicked, 
as to read such a villain? Why, I have lately de- 
stroyed a volume of him belonging to my husband.” 

“And may I ask what your husband says in regard 
to such wanton destruction of his valuable property?” 

“Humph!” replied Mrs. Simkins, with a sneer, “I 
should like to hear him say anything. Is it for my 
husband to gainsay my acts?” 

“But you will admit, that as your husband, he cer- 
tainly has some rights?” 

“Rights indeed; the right I suppose to lead me by 
the nose as I know many wives to be led by their 
husbands, being neither more nor less than slaves to 
them, cringing to them, subjected to them in every 


©be JJealotts JHmktng 


99 


conceivable manner, not daring to look or to speak 
save in such tones and with such eyes as shall best 
please, for fear of offending them.” 

“Certainly not, Madam, but surely you are not 
averse to seeing your husband happy?” 

“Why of course not,” replied Mrs. Simkins with a 
forced laugh, “of course not, and for that very rea- 
son I purchased this house and these grounds. Here 
he may find pleasure such as, I’m sure, would be ap- 
preciated by every reasonable being.” 

“But here you expect him to remain like a bird in 
a cage pining for liberty, and what does it help the 
poor imprisoned bird to know that its cage is a gilded 
one? Does it not pine all the same for freedom and 
the right to select its own food as nature intended it 
to do?” 

“Doctor what myself or my husband have to do 
with birds pining in gilded cages is more than I know. 
I never kept a bird in a cage but once in my life. It 
was a present to my mother who in turn presented it 
to me. I was then quite young and became very much 
attached to it but it proved its ingratitude one day 
by flying away, and I resolved never to keep a bird 
in a cage again, and I never will.” 

“Now don’t you think your own pleasure, and that 
of your husband, would be enhanced by the addition 
of a little company. A little society, Mrs. Simkins? 
Now only think how pleasant it would be to have 
your neighbors call once in a while, to have them dine 
with you and pass the evening in social intercourse. 


100 


Cfce 3TeaIons J&rs. i§>tmtun* 


I dare say you have quite a number of ladies residing 
in the neighborhood who would be only too glad to 
come and see you — and Mr. Simkins.” 

“I dare say they would but they shan’t, if I can pre- 
vent them. Do you suppose I would place an ob- 
stacle in the way of my own happiness by having 
ladies — ladies I think you called them — spending 
evenings in my house, talking twaddle and misleading 
my husband?” 

“Your husband has too much good sense to be so 
influenced, I am sure.” 

“Are you, then you don’t know him half so well as 
I do. I would no more trust Mr. Simkins in the so- 
ciety of ladies than I would trust myself with Satan, 
and expect to escape unscathed, and leaving my hus- 
band out of the argument, do I not know what pre- 
tentious creatures these ladies are, with their frills, 
and their flounces, and their supercilious airs, as if 
they were duchesses, and possessed the wealth of the 
whole county in their own right? Do I not know too 
that the King’s English is not good enough for them 
but they must interlard their conversation with French 
and Latin phrases which they have specially mem- 
orized to meet such occasions, as they would say 
‘there’s education for you.’ ” 

“You are not versed in the languages then, Mrs. 
Simkins ?” 

“No, nor wish to be. Simple English is good 
enough for me. Of what use is all this display of 
fine words to any one?” 


©be 3TeaIottfii jlrs. &tmtuna 


101 


“Yet you had advantages for study in your youth 
above most persons, did you not? Your father, as I 
understand, was reputed a man of considerable 
means ?” 

“He was, but my mother dying while I was yet a 
child, left me the only guardian of a younger sister.” 

“Then the care of this younger sister deprived you 
of those educational advantages, which by reason of 
your youth, and the pecuniary ability of your father, 
rightly belonged to you?” 

“Precisely.” 

“This was one of the few times that Mrs. Simkins 
was ever known to reply in monosyllable, and may be 
accepted as evidence of her desire to terminate Tib- 
bins’ interrogatories, of which she had become tired. 

“But could not your father have hired some one 
to look after the interests of your sister during your 
hours of study?” 

“The truth is my father was a man of very econ- 
omical habits.” 

“Very short-sighted economy, I think. Ah! Do 
you know, there are scarcely ten parents in a hun- 
dred who know how to properly bring up their off- 
spring, having no discrimination themselves, they ex- 
ercise none to their children's advantage by studying 
their dispositions. All are treated similarly, the sen- 
sitive disposition suffers alike the pains and penalties 
of those of a more robust nature. Such a course 
long persisted in would ruin a sensitive nature and 
make miserable its possessor during life. Make life 


102 


Cl )t 3fealoti0 ffilvt. &tmtun0 


happy for them. Be yourself happy that they may 
catch happiness from you. Show by your actions as 
well as by words, that you love them and feel an in- 
terest in their welfare, and next to their health, let 
education engage your best attention, you cannot re- 
compense them by any future consideration the want 
of it. And having brought them to vigorous man- 
hood, having launched them successfully upon life’s 
tempestuous ocean, you have done your duty, no more 
than duty, and have given them a heritage fit for any 
one.” 

“By jove, I think that would make a very good sub- 
ject for my next poem.” 

Mrs. Simkins remained silent, what his harangue 
about children had to do with her, or why he touched 
upon the matter at all was something which puzzled 
her to understand. She had no children, never had 
had any, and in all human probability never would 
have any, her sensitive spirit was wounded by the 
delivery of these remarks, and had she known for 
a certainty that he so meant it, she could have ex- 
perienced no greater pleasure than that of opening 
on him in her most vituperative manner; as it was, 
though she said nothing, her estimation of Tibbins, 
as a gentleman, had considerably fallen, and she so 
expressed it in her countenance. 

“May I inquire if your sister is still living?” 

“I alone survive of all our family,” replied Mrs. 
Simkins giving vent to a deep drawn sigh. 

After a few moments reflection, during which he 


QLfyt Sealotig Jlr 0 » £>tmfung 


103 


audibly murmured “The last of the family” he said. 
“Ah, what a theme is death for a poet to dilate upon. 
Truly, we labor today only for those of tomorrow.” 

“Do you know, I will make it the argument of my 
next poem, that, and the subject of children, and lest 
they slip my memory, I will jot them down now in my 
memorandum book, the book in which I write my 
prescriptions,” and suiting the action to the word, he 
took a book from his pocket, and at once entered 
the words therein. 

“And so you write poetry as well as prescriptions 
do you doctor?” 

“Better, much better, madam. Of the one you 
already have an example, let me give you now a taste 
of my quality in the other.” 

Mrs. Simkins smiling, excused herself. 

“As the immortal William has said of greatness, 
so may Thomas Tibbins say of poetry. Some are 
born with the gift of poetry. Some acquire poetry 
by purchase. And some have poetry thrust upon 
them.” 

“The more fools they. Now doctor, what is the 
proportion of mankind, do you suppose, who imagine 
themselves to be poets?” 

“Imagine themselves poets, you have said, well, 
and oft we do so without thinking, when thought 
and effort bring with them no satisfactory results. 
Imagine is good, the phrase is well formed. You 
might bury those who at some period in their lives 


104 


©be 3Teaious iftra* J^tmfuns 


have not imagined themselves poets, and writers and 
never miss them.” 

“And pray doctor, wherein does poetry differ from 
other forms of expression used in writing?” 

“In a musical sense.” 

“Music in words?” 

“There is music in all things, to him who has ears 
to hear, and a soul to appreciate. Now with me, 
such is the genius with which I am endowed, the 
making of poetry is the mere matter of so placing my 
words as to get out of them all the music there’s in 
them, and this I do with a facility truly marvelous.” 

“I have heard merit is modest,” remarked Mrs. 
Simkins, “And stands not at the open window but 
peeps thro’ the blinds and sees, unseen, ’Tis an offense 
in our day, but not in you, doctor. You’ll ne’er be 
hanged for it on a Friday.” 

“Never be hanged for what? madam.” 

“Your modesty, doctor.” 

“Madam, these interruptions, and the severing of 
the threads of discourse, I like not. What we are, 
we are, and still must be, in spite of sin, or Sunday. 
Modesty’s a myth, or if existent, most lacked of him 
most preached. If I blow my own horn, ’tis because 
’tis a good horn to blow, and I blow it good, no one 
will blow it for me, Besides, three good and salutary 
reasons will I give why I should blow it, and here’s 
for you.” 

“Let’s hear them ?” 

“First, it promotes content in the blower, that’s 


€&e Jealous JHrs. ^tmlitns 


105 


myself. Content means health, which, Heaven be 
praised, I have. Health conduces to longevity, which 
I hope to attain. So, doing no man ill, I will blow 
my horn till my cheeks crack, or the bellows no longer 
blow.” 

“ ’Tis a merry world indeed had one but the eye 
to discern it,” sighed Mrs. Simkins. 

“Ah, but there was one man, and one only, as I 
was about to tell you, at the mention of whose name 
I cheerfully doff my hat — the great Leonardo — a 
genius so colossal that it absorbed all arts, all sci- 
ences — a genius in a word, that stopped at nothing, 
not even at the moving of mountains, and the per- 
forming of other wonderful acts such as would 
startle those of our day even to think of.” 

“Could move mountains?” 

“By his own tell, yes. Yet for aught I have ever 
heard to the contrary, the mountains still occupy the 
sites on which Dame Nature in her goodness placed 
them.” 

“I had never heard of the great man you speak 
of, but to return to poetry, tell me, why this desire to 
be what one is not ? What nature never intended one 
to be? Why not speak in plain words what one 
has to say, and be done with it.” 

“In dealing with your fishmonger, and on other 
such occasions, yes, but let us not always look with 
eyes to the earth; let us at times forget our sordid 
environment, and soaring heavenward saunter as it 
were, in company of the gods.” 


106 


QL\ )t 3Teaioti0 iUrg* Sim&iM 


“And Goddesses I suppose? I should like to catch 
my husband sauntering in such an atmosphere. Your 
fund of knowledge is a very extensive one isn’t it, 
doctor? If I may use the expression, you know it 
all !” said Mrs. Simkins with a half sneer. 

"‘Not all, madam. I have yet to learn why some 
persons persist in going backward, when going for- 
ward is so much easier.” 

Mrs. Simkins, remained in deep thought a few 
moments, and then said, “perhaps it is because they 
want to” a reason which seemed to her to be en- 
tirely satisfactory. 

A lull now ensued in the conversation between 
them during which each looked at the other with 
eyes, and with a countenance, expressive of anything 
but admiration. 

Having spent several days in rest and recuperation 
Mrs. Simkins now had no anxiety as to the outcome 
of her condition, on the contrary, she herself said 
she was feeling as well as she ever had felt in the 
whole course of her life, a fact which was manifest- 
ing itself hourly in increasing assertiveness, and de- 
sire not to be crossed in her opinions. Tibbins re- 
alized the difficulty he was likely soon to experience 
in his efforts to keep her confined within the limits 
of her own chamber, failing which, he resolved to 
relieve her of his MSS., and his own presence at 
once, and return with Mrs. Worthington, and the 
others to their own home. 

“Not that I desire to take it up,” remarked Mrs. 


W* 3Tealouis Jflra. ^tmlttne 


107 


Simkins sardonically, resuming the conversation, 
“but don’t you honestly believe I could easily 
acquire poetry?” 

“If you mean indite poetry, madam, I am compelled 
to say it would be necessary that you be rein- 
carnated.” 

“Mercy! what’s that?” 

“Born to this world again, madam, and with a 
make up very different from that with which you 
are now invested.” 

“Well! every man to his taste, or lack of taste as 
perhaps I should say, now, my husband has an ac- 
quaintance who like yourself is much given to scrib- 
bling, I have never seen the fellow, to know him, but 
I understand he entertains no friendly feeling for 
our sex, and particularly for me. So far as I can 
learn, his poetry — as he calls it — has never done him 
any good, and it never will. No publisher ever has 
accepted a manuscript from him for publication, and 
yet the dull goose, I am told, still continues to write 
in the hope that he may yet be able to bring his stuff 
before the public, and make a name for himself. 
Ha! Ha! Ha! Did you hear that, doctor, make a 
name for himself.” 

Tibbins himself, relishing the situation, laughed 
heartily, and said “What a fool he must be.” 

“Do you know” said Mrs. Simkins, “I think all such 
fellows a little unsettled in their minds and ought to 
be looked after.” 


108 


3TeaUmfi JHrs. iHmtuns 


“There isn’t the least doubt of it, madam; pray, 
what sort of a man is he ?” 

“Of the villainous sort” answered Mrs. Simkins 
quickly, and with much severity. 

“What’s his name?” 

“His name comports well with his personality. 
Tibbins he calls himself.” 

“Tibbins! Tibbins!” said he, repeating the name 
several times very slowly, “why I think I know him.” 

“Very likely you do, doctor, but no good of him, I 
am sure.” 

Tibbins 

“A woman hater, and a vilifier 
Of the sacred name of wifehood. 

Is it not so?” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“The same, the very same.” 

Tibbins 

“I know him well, a compound of big and little ras- 
calities.” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“That, or anything that please you, so it point to 
rascality.” 

Tibbins 

“Boundless in vanity, he dresses oddly, 

And in speech and action assumes an eccentricity 
To draw eyes to himself.” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“The self-same fellow in good truth.” 


C&e Stalotts §>tmkin$ 


109 


Tibbins 

“This, Heaven forgive him, he calls genius.” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“Hang him, and all like him, he has come between 
me and my husband often, that I am sure of, and it 
would please me to see him just once. I have forbid 
my husband having further acquaintance with him. 
A past redemption rascal truly. Let him not let me 
catch him.” 

Tibbins 

“A frequenter of taverns and a drinker 
Of brain-befogging beverages.” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“Let him go where he will, and drink what he will, 
The Mischief-Making Meddler.” 

Tibbins 

“An argumentative, and windy fellow, 

A Niggard, one who would scant his breath, 

If breath were purchasable, and pay in promises.” 

Mrs. Simkins 
“What more about him. 

So he come not between me and my husband. 

All’s one.” 

Tibbins 

“Truth is to him a vice, a lie a virtue, 

And of his honesty I can but say, 

What he can’t lift, that, he can’t take away. 

Did you note the rhyme? Poetry, like love, will out 
Do what one may to squelch it.” 


110 


C&e Scahmfi 


Mrs. Simkins 

“Will you never have done of him, and of poetry ?” 
Tibbins 

“A Jail-deserving rascal. A bigamist. 

Three wives he has as true as he has one. 

Two squat, the other tall.” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“Three wives! The monster! 

Who may know a man? I thought him single, 

So ’twas always said. A lying world. 

Three wives?” 

Tibbins 

“Three, madam, three on good authority, 

Dame Gossip whispers it, and whispers too, 

How e’er she came to know it — That he in sleep, 

Offense most villainous — awakes the night with snor- 

• » 
mg. 

Mrs. Simkins 

“Let him snore, or what he will, hang him. 

No more about him, rogue, 

A pretty example he for my husband, in sooth. 
Every man comes to his deserts at last, 

Tis only a matter of time.” 

Tibbins 

“If he to sulphurous regions be committed, 

— Whereto his sins most strongly do adjudge him — 
Chaos and he will go in company, 

And pandemonium will thenceforth be 
A synonym for peace, 

He’ll slip the hounds of hell, Confound Confusion, 


Cj)e 3T^alouc£ jltra. IHmkinfii 


111 


Steal from the devil his prerogative, 

And thro’ the roaring gulfs of Acheron 
Scourge him in terror fleeing. 

You do not know him, Madam, so well as I.” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“Have you a brother, doctor?” 

Tibbins 

“A brother, I’m not so favored. 

Why, madam, do you ask?” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“How much a man may like another look, 

In all his outward and most visible parts, 

As face and stature, action and utterance, 

Is shown in you to him.” 

Tibbins 

“To whom, in the name of goodness?” 

Mrs. Simkins 

“To this same fellow that we now do speak of.” 
Tibbins 

“To him ! To Tibbins ! 

Mrs. Simkins 

“Most true, it is, — unless description do itself belie — 
A remarkable resemblance.” 

Tibbins 

“Resemblance to him ! a counterpart ! May this be so. 
I prefer to look like myself alone.” 

At this moment, Mrs. Worthington, bringing a cup 
of steaming broth, entered the room, and put a stop to 
further conversation. Tibbins retired. Mrs. Wor- 
thington had been very assiduous in her attention to 


112 


©l)e 3TeaIotifif jits. 


the wants of Mrs. Simkins since she came there, and 
had spent much time in her company, indeed she had 
so ingratiated herself in her esteem that that lady had 
opened her bosom to her in a manner she had never 
been known to do before. 

Until now, she made no allusion to her dream, to 
the ghost of the unfortunate lady, who, for jealousy 
had poisoned her husband, and gone mad in conse- 
quence. 

It had given her much thought and no little anx- 
iety. Mrs. Worthington laughed at the idea and 
tried to dissuade her from all consideration of it. 
Mrs. Simkins finally asked what interpretation might 
be put upon it? Mrs. Worthington was forced to 
acknowledge her own utter inability to interpret 
dreams, but added, that her servant Betty had a 
“Dream Book”, or “Oracle” which in all probability 
would throw some light upon it. Being urgently re- 
quested to consult the “Oracle”, Mrs. Worthington 
went downstairs at once, and communicated to Tib- 
bins and Simkins the conversation that had ensued 
between them. 

The first named of these two gentlemen who was 
never at a loss for an idea, suggested that Mrs. Wor- 
thington should explain the dream as signifying that 
Mr. Simkins having undergone undue excitement and 
anxiety by reason of his wife’s excessive jealousy 
would finally become crazy. 

To this proposition, Mrs. Worthington with some 


flTJe 3 >alon 0 JUre. &imlung 


113 


hesitation assented, and returned to the “sick” 
chamber. 

For the first time since her illness the patient had 
over-ruled the “Doctor’s” directions and absented her- 
self from it. Impatient at Mrs. Worthington’s long 
absence she herself had gone to the library in hope 
of finding there some work explanatory of dreams. In 
this she was unsuccessful but seeing several rolls of 
manuscript “encumbering the table” unceremoniously 
consigned them to the flames. 

The life work, the hope, the very existence of the 
would be immortal “poet” had ascended, not in a halo 
of glory, but in smoke. Mrs. Simkins unwittingly had 
had her revenge. 

She listened to Mrs. Worthington’s interpretation 
of her dream in silence, which was only broken by 
Tibbins who now entered. Mrs. Worthington ex- 
cused herself and left the room. Tibbins at once 
commenced to pace the floor and exhibit indications of 
great mental perturbation. 

“What’s the matter, Doctor?” 

“Would I had been spared this” muttered he aud- 
ibly, paying no attention to her and still pacing the 
floor. 

“What’s happened?” 

“I would of all things this had been the last.” 

“Would what had been the last?” cried Mrs. Sim- 
kins, following after him, up and down the room. 

“Madam,” said Tibbins, turning suddenly and con- 
fronting the lady who was almost floored by the col- 


114 


3Tcalou0 ;pc$. i&tmktns 


lision. “Will you please try to compose yourself. It 
is dreadful. Very dreadful to contemplate but com- 
pose yourself I beseech you.” 

“Doctor” demanded she in a loud voice. “If any- 
thing has happened that concerns me let me know 
it.” 

“If I must tell you, your husband has” — 

“Eloped” 

“Worse, much worse, he's gone, madam, gone.” 

“Gone where?” 

“In his head, quite gone in his head, madam.” 

“Heavens” ejaculated Mrs. Simkins, looking wildly 
at him, and falling helplessly into a chair. 

“Heaven's will be done” responded Tibbins, shak- 
ing his head sympathetically, and taking up a position 
beside her he commenced to stroke her hair softly, 
as an added expression of his sympathy. “Don't let 
your husband's misfortune operate as a detriment to 
your own recovery.” 

“Is there no hope?” 

Tibbins, averting his eyes, offered no reply. 

Mrs. Simkins was in a daze. Her dream had been 
realized sooner, much sooner than she anticipated. 
The “Oracle” had indeed spoken truth. 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“I now remember a certain strangeness in him, 
When I did see him last.” 

Tibbins. 

“Ill fortune comes to all men in their time 
And when it comes let's place it 'gainst the many 


QLl)t jealous jflrfi. S>tmlunfi 


115 


Of Fortune’s favors granted. 

So shall we strike a balance and so be 
The better reconciled. 

But why should Fortune be for all ills blamed 
And not ourselves in whom oft lie 
Both cause and remedy — 

Would we would use it wisely. 

In this philosophy I live that I 

From ills received do profit much thereby, 

When did you see him last?” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Twas yestemoon, then he did come to see me»” 
Tibbins. 

“Twas then the fit possessed him 
And has since grown 
To what it is. I too observed it 
For the first time then.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“How is he affected, doctor?” 

Tibbins. 

“At times ’tis but a mild and harmless lunacy, 

And manifests itself in such like acts 
As sitting motionless, with folded arms, 

An hour at a stretch. Mute at such time he is, 

While his drooped head in seeming thought absorbed, 
Rests on his breast.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Poor, dear Septimus.” 

Tibbins. 

“From this abstraction will nothing turn him 


116 


QLYje Jealous Jftrs* bunking 


While yet the fit is on, when starting suddenly 
In dire affright, as at some monster seen. 

He gives his eyes to Heaven, his knees to the floor, 
And shaking like a leaf at autumn time, 

In supplication, raises both his hands. 

That done, his lips, blanched as his face with fear. 

In rapid motion mutters words on words, 

But of their import I could nothing learn 
So mixed and senseless was his utterance. 

At other times, in loud and threatening tones, 

‘Bella’ he cries.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“I am ‘Bella’. ’Twas thus he called me 
In the early days of our marriage.” 

Tibbins. 

“ ‘Bella’ again he cries, and seizes that 
Which he supposes ‘Bella’.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Seizes what?” 

Tibbins. 

“A cushion, which in his fury with exultant shout 
He tears to tatters, and wildly throws 
The shreds about him.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“So had he done with me, had I been there.” 

Tibbins. 

“ ’Tis very certain.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“What’s to be done?” 


117 


C&e Jealousf Jltrc. £>traluns 


Tibbins. 

“Listen — His fury unabated, next he throws 
The chairs around, upsets the sofa, 

And topsy turvy the table turns.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“He must be looked to at once. 

Is it now the full of the moon?” 

Tibbins. 

“It is. Let me inform you further — 

Jealousy is responsible for this, he cries.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Jealousy in whom?” 

Tibbins. 

“The very words I asked him, and answer got, 

‘Bella’ four times repeated, then adds he, 

Woman’s but mortal, and all things have an end. 
What has been done can sure be done again.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“What did he mean by that?” 

Tibbins. 

“Nay, who knows.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Was it not a threat, think you?” 

Tibbins. 

“It savors of a threat, indeed.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“And would seem to show he was not wholly irre- 
sponsible.” 

Tibbins. 

“Sane at times, at most but half-moon mad.” 


118 


)c Jealous Jflrs. Humtuns 


Mrs. Simkins. 

“Madmen you know are not at all times mad.” 
Tibbins. 

“Men drunk, in sleep, and in madness speak, 
Truly their minds.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“So has he done in this.” 

Tibbins. 

“What one would do, 

Must by himself be done, 

And to none other trusted.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Did he say that?” 

Tibbins. 

“Word for word as I have spoken it.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Ere it be too late, 

Twere best we bind him hand and foot, 

And notify the keeper.” 

Tibbins. 

“Leave him to me. 

And to those sedatives which I will minister 
To bring him to himself. If in four days 
I not remove the incubus which now oppresses him, 
I am no doctor, and willingly will forfeit 
— The best part of every man — my reputation. 

Can I speak more 

To set your fears at rest? I do not think so. 

Or say I fail, we still may do as now 


Cfte Jealmifli jftra* £&>tmkui0 


119 


You do propose, consign him to a cell, 

A whip and keeper.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Let it be so. Till then let us be watchful. 

Did he speak more?” 

Tibbins. 

“Much more. The mood upon him he did babble on 
A full hour by the clock.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Of what, pray?” 

Tibbins. 

“Of you, of jealousy and of the moon, 

Whose inmate gleefully he vowed he knew, 

And that he himself no less a person was 
Than uncle to the King. 

This, whispering, he in 
Confidence conveyed, and bade me not 
Divulge it.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Madness itself gone mad. 

Let me know all.” 

Tibbins. 

“Madam, I will. Tis meet you should know all. 
Thus then again he spake; ‘The time will come 
When Doll shall have her own’.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Poll was it not?” 

Tibbins. 


“No madam, ’twas Doll.” 


120 


©|)e Jealous Jilts. ifctmfuns 


Mrs. Simkins. 

“ ‘Doll/ that’s Dolly, a woman’s name. 

When Dolly shall have her own, her own, That’s him- 
self. 

The time will come when Dolly shall have him. 

There’s poison in the words, 

Woman hath made him mad.” 

Tibbins. 

“Be assured it is so. Look, 

Here is a letter from his pocket taken 
By me this afternoon, 

Tis one of many that I found upon him, 

From, and addressed to women. Read for yourself, 
And let your pity, not your censure, fall 
On this most weak, poor man. Man is but man, 
When all is said and done.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Give me the letter.” 

Most Incomparable and Sweet Lady: 

Wonder not that I a Gentleman, and a stranger to 
you, should thus address you. Construe it not into a 
lightness in me, for such it is not. Ask me not what 
it is but let thine own heart whisper you that tender- 
est of words love, for that, Oh! most amiable lady, 
I do in all the sincerity of an honorable affection, 
protest it is. 

Oh, the pangs of an unrecognized love do so trans- 
form me I am not what I was and that I am I am not, 
nor anything for long so sudden changeful are the 
doubts and hopes of love’s expectancy. 


C&e Jealotttf JHtfi. g>tmtuns 


121 


But Heaven is gracious and you kind lady are 
Heaven, so will I pray you will accord me the favor 
of thine eye and rest me supremely happy. You in 
whom beauty first saw light and will with you depart 
forever. 

In lieu of lips, thus do I kiss my hands to you and 
bid you adieu. 

Ever your adoring, 

Septimus Simkins. 
Mrs. Simkins. 

“Oh ! Monster ! Monster ! 

Now are my suspicions at their very worst 
In full confirmed.” 

Tibbins. 

“Honor, Alas! is dead, 

And now awaits, in virginal robes besmirched 
The last sad rites, the knell and burial.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“I am amazed, and know not what to think, 

Or speak, or how to act 

In this ordeal, to me the most severe 

That yet to woman came. 

Oh, that man might be 
That which at times he seems, 

In virtues perfect. Wifehood then 
Were an unceasing joy.” 

Tibbins. 

“If man’s opinion be but born to die, 

T’were waste of thought to form one. 

I had thought, not knowing him 
Your husband were an angel.” 


122 


QL\)e Jealous ffixB. &imktna 


Mrs. Simkins. 

“And so thought I alas ! when we were wed, 

And so think woman all.” 

Tibbins. 

“Alas! the world, how oft we do mistake, 

And never more so than in respect of man, 

Whose visible visage, and whose mind unseen, 

Oft stand at variance — but Heaven wills 
Man can but run his course 
And then an end.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“A bitter end unto a bitter act.” 

Tibbins. 

“You are looking ill.” 

Mrs Simkins. 

“Who could look well, her husband’s deeds being ill, 
And he himself gone mad.” 

Tibbins. 

“I must give a change of medicine 
To meet this new condition.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“I'll no more medicine. A mind contented 
Is the only medicine that I now need, 

Not yours the power to give.” 

Tibbins. 

“I was ever 

Tender, kind and soft of heart, 

And could not of all things composedly view 
A woman’s tribulations. Thus was it, 

For love of woman and her special good, 


(E\}t 3Tealou0 JHrfii* 


123 


Came I to be a doctor. 

His is a soul unmerciful, indeed, 

Unfitted for the haunts of beast or man, 

Who can upon a suffering woman look, 

And no compassion feel. 

Heaven send you courage, and increase of strength 
To support you in affliction. ,, 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“When fortune frowns, I face to face will meet her 
And if at times from her successive strokes 
I seem to falter, be well assured my strength 
Will be renewed, and I again confront her. ,, 

Tibbins. 

“It is an admirable and sustaining spirit.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“No, rather wish the affliction be removed 

From which I suffer, than me the strength to bear it, 

Which granted, the affliction still remaining, 

I am but little better. 

“Put medicine to its use. 
Have you no pill, no powder, lotion or potion, 

Or other remedy, be it by what name known, 

Which taken inwardly, or outwardly applied, 

Will from the seat of trouble, the trouble take, 

And quiet a mind disturbed.” 

Tibbins. 

“Desperate maladies, 

Require desperate remedies to check them, 

Ere they grow chronic. 

I have a medicine of my own Compounding, 


124 


C&e Jealous ffllxa. Udmfung 


A secret. No mountebank sold it me. Tis yet un- 
tested 

Save as an experiment upon a maniac 

Who straightway was relieved. Tis powerful, 

And dangerous in the hands 

Of the unskilled. This will I try upon him cautiously. 
He can but die at most, as all men must — 

To him a blessing that lives a living death. 

Let us have hope — ” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Hope. If money and the science wherein You’re 
tutored 

Working together, assure not man his wits, 

Of what use then is either ?” 

Tibbins. 

“Money — ” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“If the issue do but give the proof 

To your expressed opinion 

That you in four days will effect a cure — ” 

Tibbins. 

“Did I say four?” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“As I do live you said so.” 

Tibbins. 

“I will not change it.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Now am I happy 

And will my word, my very honor give, 


Clje 3Tealo«s ijftrs. is>tmlunfii 


125 


Twill not from such a cause occur again. 

Four days is it not?” 

Tibbins. 

“I have said.” 

Mrs. Simkins. 

“Some say some doctors 

Have one opinion for the night, another for the day, 
Holding not long to either.” 

Tibbins. 

“I am not of these.” 

Mrs Simkins. 

“Doctors that in the reach 
And grasp of their most vital functions 
Should be so founded, fixed and well confirmed 
That ailing nature, at her worst, might laugh 
Her enemy away.” 

Tibbins. 

“Give me leave. You spoke of money. 

Money, madam, is the one factor in this worlds busi- 
ness. 

With money one may accomplish much, without it 
nothing. 

Money commands respect, while virtuous age and 
wisdom 

Go unheeded, Nay! are often scoffed at. 

For money we live, breathe, and perform each act in 
life. 

For money we marry, and command 
Cupid himself beside. 

Have you a suit at court money will buy it for you. 


126 


C&e 3TeaIott0 Jftrs. JHmIunfi 


Merit is measured by the length of the purse. 

In short, madam, not to have money 
Is to be quite out of this world's regard, but I have 
Yet to learn that money can purchase contentment 
Or furnish brains to fools, and muttering madmen.” 

Mrs. Simkins eyed him curiously, as if she thought 
that he too had caught the infection, possibly from 
her husband. 

Taking out his memorandum book he entered the 
word “Money” and again returned it to his pocket. 
“If you wish, when tractable, I will bring your hus- 
band before you so you may judge for yourself of his 
pitiable condition.” 

“Heavens! Do you suppose I would expose my 
life to the uncertain humors of a madman? I could 
never think of such a thing, and for fear he should 
find his way to my room I'll have it doubly locked 
and bolted. Nay, more, I'll keep a guard without my 
chamber door that he be barred from entrance.” 

“You will find him at times as harmless as a kitten.” 

“I will not find him at times as harmless as a kit- 
ten for I will not see him to find him so. I will do 
everything for him. I will spend money to effect his 
recovery, but I'll not see him.” 

Tibbins again told her he would use his best skill 
in her husband's behalf and hoped to be able to make 
good his promise by the expiration of the time named. 

The sharp click of the bolt, as he closed the door, 
gave assurance of Mrs. Simkins’ determination to se- 
cure herself against any surreptitious entrance of the 
supposititious madman. 


CHAPTER XII 


To heaven peace, where peace alone doth dwell, 

Here is no peace, no known tranquility. 

“The Disconsolate Monarch.” 

T HUS far everything had proceeded satisfac- 
torily, Tibbins had not only succeeded in con- 
fining Mrs. Simkins to her room, despite her 
feeling well and desire to leave it, but by strategem — 
Mrs. Worthington called it knavery — had actually en- 
kindled within the bosom of that lady a feeling of 
love — such as it was — toward her husband. 

He, as yet, was unable to determine how the mat- 
ter would terminate, but was not without hope of 
bringing it to a successful issue, thus enabling himself 
and Mrs. Worthington to emerge from it without that 
discredit which would otherwise attach to them. 

Having overcome the fear which was the occasion 
of her coming here, Mrs. Worthington was now anx- 
ious to return to her own home. “I cannot see what 
good can be accomplished,” said she,” by remaining 
any longer. All the good that can be done has been 
done, Mr. Simkins has had a few days respite and 
that is all it will ever amount to. One cannot cure 
jealousy in man or woman any more than one can re- 
store to this world those who in the very nature of 
mundane mysteries have departed from it.” 

“Well! Well, Mrs. Worthington,” said Tibbins, 
good naturedly. “I have ever tried to please you, and 


128 


Cl jc Jealous Jftrs. i&tmktns 


shall still strive to do so. Please say no more about 
it and I promise within two days to be back with you 
again in your own home.” 

A feeling of friendship which had long existed 
between them had ripened on Tibbins' part into a 
feeling of intense love, which was not without its reci- 
procal response in that lady. This reciprocation of 
feeling had been noticed by Fanny and Betty, and 
particularly since they came to Mrs. Simkins’ house, 
but they had given no intimation of their knowledge 
to either of them. 

So far as the lady is concerned it is not to be won- 
dered that she should desire marriage, most women 
do, and she was no exception to the general rule, but 
that Tibbins should seek it, in the face of his many 
arguments against it, was at least remarkable and can 
only be accounted for by the fact, that love knows no 
barrier. His opposition, certainly, had proven no bar 
to Cupid's entrance, once that chubby faced little ras- 
cal had seen fit to do so. 

“Fanny, my dear,” said Mrs. Worthington, “you 
and Betty had both better go to bed and get a good 
night's rest.” 

“I don't want to go to bed.” 

“Yes, but you must, the day has been a very long 
one, and you look very tired.” 

“To day has been no longer than yesterday was, and 
I never have gone to bed till ten o’clock. Besides, 
I’m not sleepy and couldn’t sleep if I went to bed.” 

“Fanny,” exclaimed Mrs. Worthington assuming 


Cpe Jealous JHrs. ^tmfetns 


129 


an air of austerity, “do you hear, I say go to bed and 
get your rest, come, there’s a good girl, I shall follow 
you almost immediately.” 

Having kissed her a “sweet good night,” she fully 
expected to see her retire at once, but Fanny was 
obdurate, and more than determined, on this occasion, 
to hold her own. 

“If you are going up so soon, why can’t I wait till 
you go? Why! it’s only nine o’clock.” 

“It may be that I shall not go up very soon,” spoke 
up Mrs. Worthington, “I have business with Mr. Tib- 
bins, which may detain me.” 

“I’m afraid to go into that large room alone.” 

“Afraid of what, pray?” 

“Ghosts.” 

“Foolish girl! at your age and afraid of ghosts, 
tell me, did you ever see a ghost ?” 

“No, I never did.” 

“And you never will, Fanny.” 

“Mrs. Simkins saw one.” Tibbins and Mrs. Worth- 
ington both laughed heartily. After a little persua- 
sion in which Tibbins joined, Fanny was presumed 
to have relinquished her fears, and having been kissed 
another “sweet good night,” departed, with Betty, 
from the room, instead of going to bed, however, 
they took up a position in an ante-room, where un- 
observed they could see and hear everything that 
transpired between them. 

“And now,” said Tibbins, drawing his chair close 
beside that of Mrs. Worthington. “We are alone, 


130 


3T*al0tts 


and to be alone with one one loves is to enjoy a state 
of bliss next only to heaven itself.” 

Mrs. Worthington drew a deep sigh. 

“My dear Mrs. Worthington, no, I will not call 
you by so distant a name. I will call you Sarah.” 

“Call me Sarah,” simpered Mrs. Worthington as- 
suming a bashfulness she never felt. 

“My own dear Sarah,” “no I will not call you Sarah 
either. Sarah is cold, too cold a name for love as 
warm as mine.” 

“Call me Sally,” again simpered she, hanging her 
head in mock modesty. 

“And after all,” said Tibbins, drawing his chair 
still closer and placing his arm gently round her, 
“more than the name, the substance, , tis we love. 
Sally my own sweet Sally, witness in me the very 
pangs of love, even such love as only poets feel when 
love inspired. 

Let me not live, thy love lamenting, 

Life were as death, thou not consenting, 

Sweetheart mine alone to be — 

Roses genial June adorning, 

— After hoary winters scorning — 

Bear no beauty such as thee. 

Come, my sweeting, 

Let thy greeting 
Breathe this ecstasy to me.” 

Had Mrs. Worthington been composed of inani- 


ST&e JJealottfi iflra. £>imfctns 


131 


mate material, she couldn't have more unconcernedly 
yielded herself up to the now energetic, and body- 
contracting embraces of “the poet." 

“And who is she you love?” 

“Oh! sweet simplicity! Who but your own sweet 
self could conjure up, a love so deep as mine. 

“Oh! Mr. Tibbins!” 

“Call me not Tibbins, nor more ‘Mister' me, call 
me by some sweet name that I may know by what 
you call me, that your love is so, call me Tommy.” 

“You have my pity.” 

“Have I your pity, then you love me too.” 

“What is love, Mr. Tibbins.” 

“Ah, the oft repeated and yet to be answered ques- 
tion, but this reminds me, do you know I have with 
me some recently indited poetry on love, tis writ at 
my muse’s bidding who wooed, kissed and wrapped 
the mantle of her effulgence about me and here it is.” 

“The mantle?” 

“Sweet one, the poetry.” 

“I have heard of the muse being wooed, but never 
of wooing.” 

“My dear, most persons have much to learn.” 

“Very true, Mr. Tibbins, and as for myself, I 
would gladly exchange for knowledge of those things 
with which I am not acquainted, all the knowledge I 
now possess, and be the wiser for the bargain.” 

“But, come, let us return to poetry and to love. 


132 


CI)e ^Tealctts Hurnkme 


“Where is poet can define 
That most potent power divine 
Which does sway the human breast 
Taking from man all his rest; 

Yes, and lacking hope to pine. 

“Tell, oh tell, the reason why 
Fair maids do so often sigh 
For sight of the longed-for face 
And the heart to heart embrace 
Which not coming they do cry. 

“Love it is and love will be 
Love thro' all eternity. 

Sweet is love as Seraphs’ song 
Borne on Heaven’s airs along 
Poet answer, come, tell me 
What for Love’s sake, love can be.” 

“What think you of the poetry?” 

“The lines jingle very prettily, truly.” 

“And of the poet?” 

“Let me think, well I may say of him as of most 
men, that his virtues are very kindly disposed, and do 
not burden him, and as of most men that his faults 
are not so numerous nor so confirmed as to be past 
mending. Indeed one might search him out in a 
crowd and never find him for any predominant quali- 
ty to be found in him. Are you listening?” 

“Intently.” 


C&c 3fealott6 IHmktnfi 


133 


“Further, he thinks well of himself, a desirable thing 
to do if not overdone, for in so thinking he is under 
no obligation to another for a compliment often as be- 
grudgingly as with favor given. He woes his muse, 
as he calls it, often, an innocent pastime enough, 
which keeps him employed for the time being at least, 
but not always out of mischief, and while he has profi- 
ted thereby only to the extent of his own pleasure his 
poetry cannot assuredly be said to have done any- 
body any particular harm, so let him woo his muse 
still and hereafter keep out of mischief. Are you still 
listening ?” 

“To an angel.” 

“Of his personal attractions or detractions, of 
which all men have some, I shall say nothing. Let 
him go to his looking glass for them, an ever convinc- 
ing argument of the fallacy of pride except to woman. 
That he means well goes without saying which is not 
saying he always does well, yet take him for all in 
all he is a man a woman might fall in love with if 
she were strongly inclined to love, and man were not 
a commodity spoiling on an overstocked matrimonial 
market. Will you hear more?” 

“I could listen your sweet voice the night long and 
wish it were never morning, for you speak with the 
lips of love and can breathe out nothing but pretti- 
ness and poesies. 

“Love's ears are partial and attuned to hear in 
words discordant heavenly harmony — And yet you 
have not told me what love is.” 


134 


Cbe iftre. ^uniting 


“And so can no man” 

“Nor woman?” 

“Nor woman either.” 

“Shall we always remain in darkness?” 

“Let us not worry about what love is, or whence 
it comes, but be happy in the thought that we possess 
it each for other. Let us now take up the question of 
money and of living, for these necessary albeit annoy- 
ing adjuncts to existence are yet to be considered 
for love you know is as a condiment most satisfying 
when accompanied by substantial dishes.” 

“Did you say money?” 

“If I do not abhor the name beyond all things else 
in the world may I be gibbeted, yes, and left hanging, 
too, till my poor bones bare as old Hacklehair the bar- 
bers poll, shine dangling in the moonlight. Money, 
money and nothing but money. ’Tis every man’s cry 
and woman’s too and has been since and before the 
time of old Methuselah. Why, one would think its 
possession meant salvation, and the lack of it everlast- 
ing perdition, of many things restrictive, a man may 
not eat, drink, smoke or talk more than is for 
his own good, these have their limitations, but in the 
pursuit of pelf he glories in riding his hobby to the 
devil regardless of self, health and his own happiness. 
Thank Heaven we of our ilk have little love for it 
knowing as we do that money is an enemy to genius 
and determinedly bent on her destruction. But let 
me not speak further of this now, for after all with- 
out money there can be no commodity, and a few 


Sealotttf ;Ptr0. Sumtuna 


135 


pounds stowed away make for a stormy day, so let 
us be pleased my love that you, provident yet gener- 
ous have enough in store to serve us both.” 
“Enough for both, my money?” 

“Yours, we will get along.” 

“I should be loth indeed to be called upon to pro- 
vide all.” 

“You shall not, I’ve yet some money left, and were 
it more you should as readily the handling have as if 
’twere yours alone.” 

I must tell you something. 
Passing the other night your Chamber door, 

Which you had left part open, I heard your voice, 
And thinking, as well I might, to me you spoke, 

For well I knew no person then was with you, 

I stopped and listened. Looked in upon and saw you 
sitting there, 

Your face being from me turned. 

Your limbs were to their fullest length outstretched. 
Arms dangling by your side, and on your breast 
Your head so loosely hung, that it did seem 
That but for such support it must have fallen. 

Then did you heave a long and heavy sigh 
And these words spoke: 

'Farewell to all my money, all is gone 
And not a friend but Simkins now to call on 
Who poorer is than I. 

Thus is it to be married, thus to be 
A fool to woman, who having all, keeps all/ ” 


136 


C&e Selous ^tmfeinfi 


“Did I say that? I said it dreaming then, 

I count no man poor save only he who thinks himself 
poor, 

Nor rich, if he be not satisfied with that he has. 
Content is all, and I am well content, 

Or shall be, Love, when I may call you mine.” 

But enough of this, suffice it to say, Tibbins con- 
tinued his protestations of love for some time, a 
love, which he declared was as deep as the sea, high 
as the moon, bright as the sun, and broad as the uni- 
verse — indeed, such love as only a poet can feel was 
his for Sally Worthington, who, in her own artful 
manner withheld all expression of her own feelings 
in order to draw out those of the “poet”. 

He recounted the enduring fame which their mar- 
riage would bring her name, in comparison with 
which that of Anne Hathaway would be as nothing, 
and added, “That, he would not only leave her his 
second best bed but all other beds and property, both 
real and personal, of which he should die seized and 
possessed.” Manifestly this offer had no weight with 
Mrs. Worthington who realized Tibbins had already 
spent the substance of his Uncle’s legacy, and being 
by trade a poet merely he would be extremely lucky 
if he had any bed to leave except that on which he 
took his final departure in the poorhouse, and in con- 
sideration also of the distance to be traveled she was 
willing to forego all thought of fame — that Ignis 
fatuus of fools — and allow Anne to remain in undis- 


Jealous &imfuns 


137 


puted possession of her exalted position. No, love 
it was and love only which prompted her promise to 
give Tibbins’ offer of marriage serious consideration 
and make known her decision at an early day. 

Unable to restrain his joy, he fell on his knees 
before her, and seizing her hands kissed them in his 
most fervent manner. Fanny uttered an involuntary 
“Oh !” which brought Tibbins to his feet at once, and 
his sweetheart as well. 

The little terrier, at this moment, came running to 
Mrs. Worthington and took upon himself the blame 
for the noise they had just heard. Thus quieted, 
they drew their chairs closer to the fire. Having now 
no secret to withhold from Tibbins, she commenced 
to unbosom herself at once of her history, which was, 
in effect as follows : 

Born in London of wealthy parents, her father a 
banker, she had been highly educated and introduced 
into society at an early age. There she made the ac- 
quaintance of a certain fictitious Italian Count, by 
name, Fraudino — an audacious adventurer — of whom 
she became wholly enamored, and whom, to forestall 
the alliance which her parents had determined on, she 
eloped with and married. 

Traveling to Florence, on the outskirts of which 
City he falsely represented himself as possessing a 
large and beautiful estate, he placed her in wretched 
apartments, stripped her of her jewels, the valued 
gifts of many friends in England, which he soon 


138 


Cfoe Uealottc i^re. IHmktng 


lost at the gaming table, and commenced a course of 
treatment toward her at once insulting and abusive. 

Deprived of all means, he deserted her and re- 
turned to England, where meeting soon after with 
the young gentleman to whom her father had prom- 
ised her hand in marriage, and who had long been 
in search of him, he received a challange to combat 
which he accepted, and was mortally wounded. 

From Florence with the assistance of strangers she 
returned to London, only to conceal her identity from 
parents and friends who had discarded her. 

Living in an obscure street, she had scarcely been 
able to subsist on the scanty means which her sewing 
brought her, and had there given birth to a male in- 
fant, the issue of her marriage with the so-called 
Count her husband. 

The infant she had been compelled to place — with 
a few lines, and a likeness of the “Count” as a means 
of identity, — in a basket, which she entrusted to the 
care of a boy, to be placed at the door of a certain 
foundling asylum, being ill at the time, and unable 
herself to perform the duty. 

Inquiries made at the institution, resulted in the 
information, that no infant had been found, and fur- 
ther search failed to elicit its whereabouts. The boy 
to whom it had been entrusted had never returned, 
and could never afterwards be traced. 

Many, many weary days of fruitless search had 
been hers. While thus engaged she one day met a 
former lady friend who recognized and accosted her, 


GT&e 3Tealoufli ££>tmtuna 


139 


and through whose generosity and kindness of heart, 
she was enabled to purchase the house in which, under 
the assumed name of “Worthington” she had long 
lived, and in which, God willing, she hoped to termin- 
ate her days, in peace and obscurity. Concluding, she 
buried her face in her hands, and wept freely. 

Tibbins kissed and assured her that he would 
marry her for sympathy if for no other reason. 

At this juncture the door opened suddenly, and 
Simkins — who had been rumaging among the old ef- 
fects in the garret — came running in, exclaiming, 
“I’ve got ’em, I’ve got ’em.” 

“What’s the matter,” exclaimed both Mrs. Worth- 
ington and Tibbins in one voice. 

“The proofs, the proofs. The letter, the portrait 
of my Father,” replied Simkins, capering around the 
room and holding aloft what seemed to be two dis- 
colored pieces of paper. 

Handing the picture to Tibbins it was shown at 
once to Mrs. Worthington, who uttered a sharp 
scream and fell fainting, in Tibbins’ arms. Fanny 
and Betty now came hurriedly into the room. 

This was a condition of things entirely unlooked 
for and puzzled those present to understand. 

Recovering, Mrs. Worthington threw her arms 
around Simkins’ neck with the exclamation “My son, 
my long lost son” and kissed him fervently. Explana- 
tion followed explanation in rapid succession. 

In the ecstasy of his joy Simkins quite forgot his 
fears of his wife, quite forgot the relations in which 


140 


(We Jealous JHrs. &tmktns 


Tibbins and his newly discovered mother stood to 
Mrs. Simkins, quite forgot the deception which had 
been practiced upon her. In fact forgot everything 
but that he had found in Mrs. Worthington his own 
mother, and so great was his desire to communicate 
this information to his wife that he rushed pell mell 
up stairs, and into her chamber, the door of which she 
had strangely forgotten to fasten. 

Attired in her night gown and cap, Mrs. Simkins 
lay in a half slumber. Her husband’s precipitate en- 
trance, and excited exclamation, that he had found 
her, startled her, and accepting the situation with a 
cry of despair, she leaped from her bed, and, rushing 
downstairs, was soon in the presence of those in the 
sitting room, breathing heavily, and scarcely able to 
speak. 

Simkins entered a moment or two later. 

Believing him still crazy and bent on her destruc- 
tion she was about to renew her flight to other and 
safer quarters. Anticipating her intentions Tibbins 
clasped her by the arm and endeavored to reassure 
her of her husband’s tractability. 

Simkins’ discovery was made known to her. She 
congratulated Mrs. Righter, as she called her, on her 
good fortune and expressed the pleasure which a de- 
tailed account of her history would afford her on the 
morrow. Casting a suspicious glance at her hus- 
band, she again returned to her apartment. 

On the following morning, Tibbins preparatory to 
leaving for home entered the library to get his manu- 


C&e SMtros ittrg. ^tmtuna 


141 


scripts. They were not where he had left them, some- 
what nettled yet not doubting but that he would find 
them he continued the search, overturning in his now 
increasing excitement the books and papers around 
him. Satisfied at last, that they were not there, and 
wrought to the highest pitch of excitement by their 
disappearance, he rushed madly downstairs, and 
throughout the house insisting that he or she had 
taken them and demanding their whereabouts. 

Nobody had taken them. Nobody had even seen 
them. 

His only hope, a forlorn hope at best, was that Mrs. 
Simkins might have them, rushing into her bed-room 
he put the question to her in his most excitable man- 
ner. 

Mrs. Simkins mildly mentioned that several rolls 
of paper which she found in the library encumbering 
the table had been thrown by her into the fire. 

The mystery, of their disappearance was at last 
made clear. A thunderbolt, had one fallen among 
them could not have created greater consternation in 
the mind of the “poet” than did this announcement. 
Uttering a series of profanities, which will scarcely 
bear repetition, he fell dazed into a chair, stretched his 
legs at full length, dropped his chin on his breast, 
and abandoned himself to utter despair. 

“Doctor, I beg you’ll pardon me, but really I had 
no idea they were worth anything.” 


142 


ftfoe Jealous jKrc* Suntans 


"Don’t call me doctor,” cried Tibbins, rising sud- 
denly, "I’m no doctor.” 

"No doctor!” exclaimed Mrs. Simkins with sur- 
prise. 

"No,” shouted Tibbins, pacing the floor, "no doc- 
tor, don’t know any more about medicine than you 
do, and don’t want to. I’m a poet, madam, a poet, I 
say a poet, if you would know it, and my name’s 
Tibbins, Tibbins, do you hear, madam, Tibbins.” 

"Tibbins, you Tibbins!” 

"Yes Tibbins, and be hanged to you.” 

"Indeed, then Mr. Simkins is not crazy!” 

"Not half so crazy as you are.” 

“And I have been shamefully imposed upon.” 

"I wish I had poisoned you.” 

"Oh! you old reprobate!” 

"Don’t reprobate me, you ugly old thing. I’ll 
smash everything in the room,” and suiting the action 
to the threat he upset a flower stand scattering earth 
pots, and flowers in indescribable confusion. 

"I defy you,” cried Mrs. Simkins advancing and 
assuming her most threatening attitude. 

"Do you,” said Tibbins, pushing and causing her 
to fall backward against a washstand which she seized 
hold of and overturned, drenching herself as she did 
so. Nothing daunted, and half rising, she seized the 
handle of the broken water pitcher and hurled it with 
her greatest force at the head of "the poet.” Missing 
him, and hitting her own portrait it broke the nose 
of the "counterfeit presentment” and brought down 


C&e ^calotte JHra. Simfeiius 


143 


both frame and canvass. Striking in its fall the back 
of a chair the canvass was forced from the frame 
which now stood leaning against the wall as if glad 
of its separation from so jealous a companion. 

“You can’t frighten me, you scribbling old fool” 
sung out Mrs. Simkins, looking round for something 
portable to lay her hands on. “I’m only too glad to 
see you, you and your stuff,” (making allusion to 
Tibbins’ poetry) “I'll teach you a lesson, you miser- 
able looking old trickster you.” 

As Mrs. Simkins’ anger increased that of Tibbins 
began to subside, he had not expected to find in her 
so great a virago, indeed, he would have been satis- 
fied to merely demolish the furniture and other 
articles in her room as an appeasement to his feelings 
and then let the matter rest. 

He thought it exceedingly uncharitable in her to 
contest his right to commit this destruction under the 
circumstances, yet since she had seen proper to do so, 
and since also that she seemed likely to get the upper- 
hand of him he was now willing to depart her pres- 
ence omitting those little formalities of leave taking 
incidental to punctilious society. 

Not so desirious to part company was Mrs. Sim- 
kins, who now advanced boldly with a fixed look of 
determination to do or die. Tibbins quailed and tried 
to escape. Seizing his long locks from behind she 
brought him to a sudden stand and sent blow after 
blow upon his bald pate in rapid succession. 

His cries brought everybody hurriedly into the 


144 


3 Mott 0 ;pt 0 . Sbimtuius 


room. A fortunate circumstance now presented it- 
self ; observing her husband among those present, she 
initiated a hot pursuit of him down the stairs, while 
Tibbins never ceased running till he reached the high- 
way where he stood awaiting further developments, 
and cursing the event which caused him to come to 
this malodorous home of marital infelicity. 

Mrs. Worthington, Fanny, Betty and the little 
terrier soon made their appearance being only too 
glad to leave the premises on Mrs. Simians’ most ex- 
plicit invitation. 

In consideration of their relationship and of her 
friendship for Mrs. Worthington, no objection was 
interposed to that lady, who frequently visited at the 
old chateau, but Tibbins never crossed her threshhold 
more, while she lived. 

True to her nature, Mrs. Simkins, remained until 
her death the same jealous and obdurate old lady she 
had ever been. This sad event — which Tibbins de- 
clared to be the only infallible cure for jealousy — took 
place two years subsequent to the events related in 
the present chapter, and was occasioned by that dis- 
tressing and most uncommon of all maladies, lockjaw. 

Her will, a curiously devised testament, disclosed 
in full her wishes regarding her funeral — her desire 
that Simkins as an expression of his bereavement 
should wear mourning for a period of ten years and 
remain a widower during his natural existence — that 
Tibbins be interdicted and prevented from attending 
her obsequies, and that her age, (as to which she had 


145 


<E|)c Salons g>tmkhts 


misinformed her husband, by just five years) the date 
of her death and her epitaph be inscribed on her tomb- 
stone which she had already taken the precaution to 
have placed in the village churchyard. 

The epitaph which here follows, Mrs. Simkins had 
selected and slightly altered from a Mss. entitled 
“The Disconsolate Monarch’' which she found in her 
husband’s library — and oh ! the strangeness of it, 
which Tibbins himself had written. A fact which 
were it possible for her to know would cause her to 
burst her sepulcher and dance in her winding sheet to 
the accompaniment of her own anger : 

“Gentle her disposition, 

Her words like prayers, so measuredly did flow 
That all who heard them did upon her look 
As on some holy woman.” 

To Simkins were given absolutely the old house, 
its contents and the grounds at Haddonhill, all her 
other property being left in trust for his sole use and 
benefit, conditioned on his abstaining for all time 
from all vices of whatsoever kind or nature, and es- 
pecially from that, to her the greatest of all evils — the 
society of persons of her own sex. Of the many con- 
ditions imposed, one at least was adhered to and fol- 
lowed to the letter. Simkins remained a willing wid- 
ower until the end. 

Her funeral was largely attended, all the neighbors 
from far and near having crowded thither from mo- 
tives of curiosity. 


146 


C&e JeaUma Jftta. JSumitutfi 


From the remarks of the attending minister where- 
in were extolled the many virtues of the dear departed 
Simkins received his first knowledge of the grievous 
loss he had sustained by her removal. 

Tibbins, having been united in marriage with Mrs. 
Worthington became at once not only Simkins' friend, 
as he had long been, but his father as well, and father 
and son were once more domiciled under the same 
roof, as fathers and sons should be, lived a life of har- 
mony as fathers and sons should do — and all within the 
house where jealousy and discord had long reigned 
supreme — the house of Simkins, and let me add en- 
joyed his hobby, that of scribbling poetry to the last, 
dying full of years, if not of honors, his wife, follow- 
ing him soon after. 

Fanny having married, emigrated to America leav- 
ing Simkins solitary and alone, and with no alterna- 
tive but to dispose of the property, which he accord- 
ingly did. 

Settling once more under brighter auspices in Lon- 
don he soon forgot in the bustle of its busy marts, 
his previous history, and lived many years, as it were, 
a new existence. 

His library, the accumulation of a life time — he 
ordered to be sold, and the proceeds thereof, added 
to his fortune, he bequeathed in the name of“Sweet 
Charity" to the poor of London. 





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